


Tigger & Eeyore: Camp Campbell and Beyond

by Forestwater



Series: You Don't Spell It, You Feel It [2]
Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Chapter 3 gets smutty, Chapter 4 is literally just 10000 words of porn, F/M, Fluff, NSFW in ch 11, because it's excessive, canon compliant to the first season, have i mentioned the fluff?, just like a little bit, not a lot, the sequel no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2018-09-19 03:33:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 88,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9416273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forestwater/pseuds/Forestwater
Summary: "Aww, Gwen, you know I love you."She froze, her grip on the phone turning her knuckles white. "Um. No, I didn't."There was silence, so long that she was starting to worry David had passed out. Then: "Oops. I was saving that for a better time."





	1. The Lake Lilac Annual Friendship Camping Trip

**Author's Note:**

> HI, guys! As promised, here's the beginning of a sequel to The Adventures of Tigger and Eeyore! This story goes beyond Season 1 of Camp Camp. I attempted to be canon-compliant, but since I can't predict the future, it might not match anything after the first season. I don't know if there will be smut, but chapters with it will be optional and marked in the notes and tags. 
> 
> Hope you guys like it!

They really needed to figure out a schedule that let her sleep more than two hours a night.

She leaned with her elbow on the table, propping her head up with one hand and hoping she didn't fall asleep in her breakfast. The din of the mess hall was almost peaceful — like a plane engine idling six inches from her ear, or footage of Black Friday stampedes played at maximum volume. If she relaxed and tried not to focus on any one thing, the individual fights and whining melded into a tidal wave of noise that she was pretty sure she could tune out eventually.

"Gwen!" A hand landed on her shoulder, knocking her elbow out from under her and almost sending her face-first into the Quartermaster's Scrambled Egg Soup.

"Uwaah?!" Responding with her usual catlike reflexes, she swayed drunkenly, looked up at the ceiling, and finally focused her bleary gaze on the gangly ball of sunshine who had plopped onto the bench next to her. "Whaaizzit?"

"It's almost time for the morning activity!" David beamed at her, the little lines around his brilliant green eyes crinkling with the kind of joy that usually only appeared in Norman Rockwell paintings. He was practically glowing, his skin — oddly immune to tanning, though it was sprinkled with a few freckles — radiating light and warmth, and he thrummed with energy that exploded out of him in little bursts: tapping his fingers, jiggling his legs, playing with the bandanna around his neck. Somehow, despite the unreliably working showers, a diet of rehydrated astronaut food, and so little sleep it made her two hours look like a weeklong coma, her co-counselor gleamed like a shiny new car, bright and beautiful and overflowing with positivity.

She wanted to kill him.

Sensing her barely-contained pique, he quickly held up a steaming styrofoam cup. "Coffee, extra sugar, no milk, first from the pot," he chirped, wrapping her fingers around the paper sleeve. She peered down at the drink, confused by how light and creamy it was, and he gave her a sheepish grin. "I, uh, told the Quartermaster you were having a rough morning and he . . . offered to help."

Gwen took a cautious sip, recognizing the taste of Bailey's instantly, along with a sharp bitterness that might've been a splash of vodka. Figuring it would ruin the whole keeping-their-relationship-a-secret-from-the-rest-of-the-camp plan if she tackled David to the floor and kissed him in the middle of the mess hall, she instead mustered up as much of a smile as she could. "Thanks."

"No problem! I owe you, since you were up late because of me." They'd spent until three a.m. determining whether they had enough sewing supplies for all the campers, and using the rest of their meager budget to order extras online. None of their kids had signed up for Design Camp, but after seeing how they'd thrown themselves into making costumes for the Order of the Sparrow, it seemed like a good way to wrap up the summer.

"Yeah, about that." The glare she gave him would've been more vicious if she hadn't also been busy trying to drink the coffee as fast as possible without giving herself serious burns. "Maybe you could . . . you know, _not_ come up with ideas for camp activities in the middle of the night? Or at least save them for the morning?"

"Nighttime is my thinking time! And I have to start working on them immediately or else I'll forget all my ideas!"

It was impossible to argue with him, so she finished her drink and decided there was no way she could eat whatever the Sausage Surprise was. "You think we could talk QM into making food that doesn't look like a science experiment gone wrong?" she asked quietly as they went to throw out their breakfasts. "All we need is one kid to Instagram this shit and Campbell could get sued."

"But Gwen, he's so creative! And that's the kind of adventurous spirit we encourage at Camp Campbell!"

In her opinion, it took a lot more of an adventurous spirit to _eat_ the Quartermaster's concoctions than to cook them. "So what're we doing this week?"

"Well, since it's our last week, I thought we could use Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday to do abbreviated versions of each of the kids' camps, Design Camp on Thursday, and then wrap up the summer with the Lake Lilac Annual Friendship Camping Trip! We'll make sure they pack on Thursday night, then they'll be ready to go when their parents come to pick up the campers on Saturday morning." He glanced down at the clipboard, blinking to hide the fact that his eyes had gotten misty. "Today I was thinking we could combine Neil and Space Kid's interests for Science and Space Camp this morning, then cool down with Pottery Camp in the afternoon since it'll be so hot today."

"Sounds good." With a pang of sympathy, she sidled closer and leaned into him, pretending to study the clipboard. "You doing okay?" she asked, keeping her voice low so the few kids still straggling out of the mess hall didn't overhear.

David straightened immediately, giving her a smile that, to his credit, almost looked real. "Of course! The end of summer is such an exciting time!" As they headed out to the activities field, he added with careful nonchalance, "Besides, you must be looking forward to getting back to the real world, huh?" He cast an arm around them at the dilapidated campground, with the lake on their right and the trees on their left stretching up into the cloudless sky. "This must feel pretty small compared to the city."

"Yeah, I guess . . ."

His phone let out a jingle, an alarm that marked the beginning of the morning's activities. "Well, we don't want to be late! Come on!" He broke into a jog. Gwen, who didn't believe in jogging, strolled behind him, catching the Problem Children as they tried to sneak off into the woods.

"All right, brats." She snagged the back of Nikki's overalls with one hand and Max's hoodie with the other. "It's the last week. Can't you _try_ to follow the rules for a few days?"

"Gwen, it's the last week! Can't we skip the activities for a few days?" Max echoed snidely, his short legs trying to keep up with her stride.

Neil rolled his eyes, falling in line beside his friends as they were dragged along the dirt path. "The number of days left doesn't really correlate with us being more well behaved. If anything, you should be better prepared for us acting out, since you've had a whole summer's worth of practice."

"Besides, we're just trying to make sure you don't miss us too much," Nikki added cheerfully. She seemed to have no problem with letting Gwen haul her across camp, crossing her legs and tilting her head back to catch the sun.

"Don't worry about that," she muttered, dropping them at the edge of the field. "Nurf, keep them from running off." (He'd become accustomed to this job, realizing that he could get extra desserts out of it. Since it mostly distracted him from bullying, she'd decided it was a worthy trade, and even though David wasn't thrilled that she was bribing the kids, he hadn't come up with a better solution.) As Nurf glared the three down —Nikki dropping to her knees and baring her teeth in response — she trudged up to David. "Let's get this over with."

"That's the spirit, Gwen! Okay, campers, today we're going to . . ." She watched him gather the kids around the three-legged Science station, resolving for the third summer in a row to devote some of next year's budget to getting a real microscope, and knowing that they would barely have enough money to restock the beakers and vials that somehow kept exploding.

_"You must be looking forward to getting back to the real world, huh?"_

Normally, that question would be answered with a resounding "Hell yes!"

This year, though . . . she really didn't know.

* * *

"Not bad," Gwen said, watching the kids stumble under their giant yellow backpacks, loaded down with sleeping bags, tents, and about two hundred bottles of water. The sun was just breaking over the lake, and while she wasn't any more excited about this trip than the campers were, she was impressed with how well David had managed to corral them all. "Everyone's alive and we've almost gone ten whole feet."

"Thanks!" As usual, her coworker's sarcasm meter was seriously broken. "Now, I'll take the front, you'll be in the back —"

"In case anyone tries to make a run for it or dies or something, sure. I can watch them and do nothing." Their phones worked well enough on the grounds, but more than a hundred feet from the mess hall they were little more than pretty hunks of plastic.

"— and the Quartermaster," he continued, pointedly ignoring her interruption, "will be . . . around, ready to jump in and lend a hand." That meant he'd be skulking through the woods, stabbing squirrels and doing whatever creepy shit he usually did when left to his own devices. David handed her a map, their path outlined in pink highlighter. "We'll stop for lunch at Murderer's Gulf and be at the Lake Lilac Friendship Camping Site by mid-afternoon."

That almost sounded doable, as long as he didn't mention that this site was at the peak of a goddamn mountain. She thought his ETA was optimistic, at best. "Let's get going, then. Might as well _campe_ _diem_ while there's still some _diem_ left." The odds of them making it to the site before nightfall were okay, assuming nothing incredibly stupid slowed them down, but the less risk of staggering around in the darkness, the better.

"Right. Follow me, everyone! This way . . ."

Walking in the back wasn't bad, actually. She just had to keep pace with Neil, Max, and Space Kid, who due to a combination of not caring and being woefully out of shape — or, in the latter's case, being weighed down by a ridiculous costume and a fishbowl over his head — lagged well behind the others. Technically it was Gwen's job to try and cajole them into staying with the group, but her own lack of athleticism and giving a shit left her more than happy to let the kids take it slow.

"This is ridiculous," Neil muttered, slapping away a mosquito and crossing his arms. "I should be building a rocket launcher, not ignoring thousands of years of technological advancement to sleep outdoors!" He turned to Gwen as though this was all her fault. "People were dying of the plague and they _still_ didn't have to live in tents. We are at sub-medieval levels of civilization right now."

She sighed, hiking up her backpack in the futile attempt to keep it from digging into her shoulders. The movement untucked her shirt, leaving her skin vulnerable to mosquito bites, but she was too hot and tired to care. "If you catch a horrible disease and die, Neil, we won't make you participate in the rest of the activities. Promise."

"I just don't get why David thinks dragging us to the middle of nowhere is supposed to make us like nature," Max said. He'd pulled his hoodie off and wrapped it around his head, presumably to keep the sun out of his face. That or it was some sort of cultural thing, but she definitely wasn't going to ask. "Show us some stupid documentaries or something where we don't have to worry about getting lost and eating each other!"

"I like it!" Space Kid chirped. When this was met with two withering glares — Gwen keeping her face neutral in an attempt to be professional — he looked up at the sky and said, "Never mind!"

"This is some Trail of Tears bullshit," Neil growled, then glanced over at Max. "Sorry, is that offensive?"

Max rolled his eyes, tossing his hands up in the air. "Nobody here knows _anything_ about Indians, do they?"

"Hey, I go to public school. Don't blame me."

Gwen tuned out their bickering, focusing all of her mental effort on putting one foot ahead of the other instead of lying down on the rocky path and letting the platypuses eat her. How did these kids have so much energy? Where in their tiny bodies did they store it all?

"You're doing great, guys! Almost there!" David careened around the bend in the path, Nikki clinging to his belt loops with just her toes scraping the ground.

"FASTER, CAMP MAN! I'M GONNA FLY OVER THE LAKE!"

Speaking of bottomless energy . . . He managed to skid to a stop without knocking them over like bowling pins, though momentum sent his passenger flying — "WOO! SEE YA!" — before being snatched out of the air by the Quartermaster, who'd come up silently behind them. He looked down at the camper dangling from his hook by the back of her overalls, then unceremoniously dumped her on the ground and headed up the mountain.

"Aww," Nikki pouted, brushing herself off. "I was gonna try to make it all the way to the docks."

"Actually, that never would've worked. The trajectory was way off, and your speed —"

"Stop being such a buzzkill, Neil!" The three Problem Children strolled up the path after QM, arguing about the best way to fly off a mountain and mostly ignoring Space Kid as he waddled after them.

Finally alone and no longer required to be the responsible adult, she threw her backpack on the ground, stretching her back with a groan. " _Please_ tell me there's a car waiting to take us the rest of the way." She stood up on her tiptoes and reached to the sky, wishing she could skip the rest of this adventure in favor of a hot bath and some trash TV.

"Um, I . . ." He was watching her with a slightly dazed expression, and she realized her shirt had ridden up past her ribs. She grinned, her first real smile of the day.

"Something wrong, co-counselor? Are yo _mmph_ —" He stepped forward, fingertips skimming the exposed skin as he planted his hands on her hips, and crushed his lips to hers. The kiss, like everything David did, was sudden and overwhelming. And, like most things he did, done without really thinking through the consequences. Shoving his shoulders, she pushed him back and yanked her shirt down. "No," she snapped, wincing internally at her tone. It sounded like she was talking to a bad dog. "I'm _not_ getting you fired. Which means nothing like that without multiple locked doors between us and children."

Like a bad dog, he backed off and gave her the widest, saddest eyes she'd ever seen. "Sorry," he mumbled, sounding genuinely chastened. "I just —"

"Realized that _maaayybe_ spending one of our last nights together surrounded by a bunch of kids wasn't the most romantic way to end the summer?" He looked away sheepishly, and she laughed. "It's a good idea, David. I'm glad we're doing it, even if my legs feel like they're going to fall off." With a careful glance up the path, she leaned in and pecked him on the cheek. "So what'd you come back for, if not to maul me?"

"T-the other campers are having lunch, and I thought I'd come back to motivate you guys!" He looked up at the path, where they could still hear Max and Neil loudly debating the merits of jet packs versus hover boots. "Which . . . I think I did? Anyway —" He knelt down and picked up her bag, slinging it over his shoulder. "— let's go!"

* * *

"This is it?" Max demanded as he, Gwen, and Neil straggled into the Lake Lilac Friendship Camping Site.

"I don't know why you keep expecting better," she said tiredly, ushering them over to where the Camp Campbell kids were setting up their tents. "You've been a camper here for two years."

"Yeah, but isn't Mr. Campbell a millionaire? Why hasn't he renovated the shit out of this place yet?"

That was a question Gwen was dying to know the answer to, as well. "He probably bought another country or something. We used to do this down at Murderer's Gulf, but then we realized —"

"That it was a place called _Murderer's fucking Gulf_?"

"— that it was closer to our camp than the Woodscouts' or the Flower Scouts'," she continued, ignoring Max. "In the interest of fairness, we moved it up the mountain so it was in the middle."

Neil shook his head, like he couldn't get over the stupidity of adults. "So now _everyone_ has to hike farther? How is that any better?"

"I don't know. Go bother David." She was officially unable to deal with any more bullshit; she didn't even think she could put up her sleeping tent. If it was up to her, she'd just lay down on top of it and roll herself up in the plasticky fabric like a burrito.

Luckily, it wasn't up to her. "Gwen!" David bounced over. She was honestly starting to wonder if he drew energy from the sun like a plant, or if he somehow flew up here by helicopter without anyone noticing. No one should be that peppy after climbing a mountain. "I set up our tent! I'll show you!"

"You're _sharing_ a tent?" Neil asked, exchanging a look with Max.

Gwen didn't like that look. "Yeah, we share a cabin, too. So what?"

"But this is like sharing a _bedroom_. Made of cloth." Again, the look. At least Max didn't seem to think this was significant — though his expression made it clear that he'd be happy to play along to fuck with them.

Arguing with a ten-year-old was an exercise in futility, but her nerves had been frayed by the heat and exhaustion. "You two share a tent with Nikki every night!"

Max jumped in, looking way too entertained by the conversation. "Yeah, but we're kids. What kinda sicko thinks kids are up to anything like that?"

"Like what?" Neil added, smirking at Max. "I have _no_ idea what you're talking about."

"Me neither. Because we're _kids_."

Hadn't she just decided she was done with bullshit for the day? "Just show me to the stupid tent," she muttered to David with a sigh, adjusting her backpack.

"Be careful! Bears can smell sex!" Max called after them, way too loudly.

She replied with two middle fingers, which David noted with a disapproving frown. "They — bears can't really do that, right?" she asked, dropping her voice to a whisper as they maneuvered the minefield of tents.

"Well, we don't have bears up here anymore," he answered quietly. "But Nikki's very primal, so . . ."

Understood. No sex until they were well away from wild animals. Or their campers, who were essentially wild animals. "I need food," she declared, tossing her bag into the tent David had marked with a Post-It Note that said "Camp Campbell Counselors! :D"

He glanced over at the fire pit, where the Woodscouts were berating the Flower Scouts about the proper fire maintenance. (This was important, as the fire pit had been donated by Mr. Campbell and installed by the Quartermaster, and had an unfortunate habit of caving in and/or exploding when the coals got too hot.)

"Um, we're _girls_. I think we know how to cook," one of them, the redhead, said, putting her oven-mitt-clad hands on her hips.

The blue-haired camper tossed her hair and added, "Shouldn't you be, like, hunting bears or something manly?"

"There aren't any bears up here," Billy Nikssilp (known by basically no one as "Snake," despite his best efforts) growled, chomping on his candy cane. "Anymore."

"Then —"

Turning back to Gwen with an apologetic smile, David said, "I think it might be a while." She sighed, and he grabbed her wrist, dragging her through the campgrounds to the edge.

The Lake Lilac Friendship Camping Site was at the very peak of the mountain, which had been leveled smooth like someone had sheared off the top with a giant knife. (Gwen was pretty sure that wasn't _literally_ what had happened, but she didn't put it past Mr. Campbell.) Aside from the path up — which turned into stairs for the last couple hundred feet, the incline was so steep — it was a sheer drop on three sides. To keep the kids (and counselors) from getting themselves killed, and to more or less discourage attacks by wild animals, the Flower Scouts had provided a fence with a shiny pink gate, and despite the fact that it was made of extremely thin rainbow-colored links that looked like they wouldn't keep out a squirrel, it was surprisingly strong. The Woodscouts' contribution was adding giant torches and spikes to the top of the fence, which the Flower Scouts had immediately painted over with flowers, making the campsite look like a terrifying, yet adorable, maximum-security prison a couple hundred feet from one end to the other.

However, the view was pretty spectacular. Past the rainbow fence, the rocky ground dove away, pine trees growing greener and denser as the mountain sloped down. At the side she and David were standing at, the trees abruptly stopped at the site of Camp Campbell, which looked cute and almost ACA-approved from this height, and beyond that the lake glistened purple and orange in the waning sunlight. To the left, Camp Flower Scouts sparkled like the Disney version of a medieval castle, and to their right . . . "I swear to Christ, the Woodscouts' place looks more like Mordor every year."

"Isn't it beautiful?" The backs of David's knuckles brushed against hers, like he was considering taking her hand. Apparently thinking better of it, he shoved them in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "I can't believe another year's over."

"I can't believe we _survived_ another year."

They stared at the darkening lake for a minute, listening to the shrieks and laughter of the campers behind them. They were all clustered around their tents or circling the bonfire; there was no one within hearing distance. "What happens now?" David finally asked, glancing over at her.

Gwen pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Well, I'm planning on eating half my body weight in hotdogs, staring at the fire until my eyes feel like they're gonna dissolve, and passing out in our too-small, poorly-ventilated tent somewhere around midnight. Oh, and getting attacked by baby flying vampires."

"Mosquitos?"

"Yep."

"But what about . . ." he leaned over slightly, bumping his shoulder against hers before angling away, "this?"

She glanced down at where their sleeves had touched. "My shirt? Probably gonna have to wash it like five times to get the smell of sweat and explosives out of it."

" _Gwen_."

"Fine." She stuck her tongue out at him, then turned serious. "I . . . don't know. I've never really done the long-distance thing." It wasn't like New York had a shortage of single guys with emotional problems and delusions of grandeur; she could walk around the block and have a boyfriend before she made it back home.

"Me neither." His voice was quieter than she was used to, almost meek. "Am I allowed to say I'll miss you? Or is it too soon or something?"

If Gwen was a better girlfriend, she would've been comforting and sweet, but instead she rolled her eyes. "You won't be able to, because I'm never gonna leave you the fuck alone. Texts, calls, Facebook, Skype sex . . ." He made a sudden choking noise and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck, and she laughed. "And hey, six hours isn't anything, right? Maybe I can get time off whatever shitty job I find this fall, take a train and visit or something. I mean, if that's okay. Like if you have time or whatever."

He turned away from the view to face her fully, the glow from the distant bonfire flickering off his impossibly white grin. Before he could respond, a staticky crackling pierced the air, and the perpetually-bored voice of one of the Flower Scouts followed: "Um, like, dinnerrrrrrrr?" Suddenly there was a shriek. "Oh my god, _Neil!_ HI, NEIL!"

"Tabii, shut up!" There was scuffling, then the sound of another one of the girls blared across the camp. "So, we have cruelty-free, fat-free, sodium-free, gluten-free, dairy-free and organic hot dogs. And there's, like, vegan ones for anyone trying to watch their figure, but those _aren't_ gluten-free."

"They're all totally kosher!" Tabii called, her voice barely picked up by the megaphone.

"So let's like, eat or something?" This was met with a bedraggled cheer, and the campers moved with varying levels of enthusiasm toward the table the Woodscouts had set up, piled high with hotdogs, energy powder and protein shakes, fresh fruits and veggies, and a mountain of junk food. (It was pretty easy to see what had been supplied by each camp.)

As they lagged well behind the rush, David murmured, "Of course we'll visit each other, Gwen. I'll always have time for you."

"That's the fucking cheesiest thing I've ever heard."

He pouted. "This is part of why I'm uncool, isn't it?"

" _Definitely_."

* * *

There were no chairs at the Lake Lilac Friendship Camping Site, but someone had taken several logs and chopped them into approximately seat-sized chunks and scattered them around the fire. These were set up back when all three camps had been much bigger, so Gwen snagged a second log, turned it upright, and used it as a table, fiddling with keeping it level to avoid talking to the man who'd immediately plopped down next to her.

Unfortunately, Pikeman was very difficult to deter. "So," he began, sliding his log closer to hers, "how did someone like you end up in Cameron Campbell's employ, anyway?"

"Uh . . ." She looked around for David, but somehow he'd ended up several seats over from her, chatting happily with Nerris. "I needed a job?"

" _Fascinating._ " He leaned forward, resting his spotty chin in one hand, and she resisted the urge to flinch away. Had anyone ever recommended he see a dermatologist? One of her brothers had gotten some pill that made him look much less . . . like _that_. "It just seems to me like such a fair and —" His eyes swept over her, lingering on her legs — " _powerful_ maiden like yourself would be _wasted_ at a place like Camp Campbell."

Gwen shoved a hotdog into her mouth in what she hoped was as un-maidenlike a fashion as possible, wiping ketchup off her lower lip and indicating with her hands that she couldn't talk. She glanced over at David, wondering if her please-get-me-out-of-here expression would be ruined by having a mouth full of what she realized to her dismay was a vegan hotdog, but it didn't matter; oblivious to her distress, he was peppering the tall bald Woodscout with questions about . . . wilderness survival, probably.

What was Pikeman doing here, anyway? The last time they'd spoken to each other, she'd run away from him as fast as possible. The time before that, she'd stormed his camp, screamed at him for kidnapping one of their kids, and threatened to sue the camp with all the legal power Campbell had behind him. Only David's rail-thin, but surprisingly strong, arms around her shoulders had kept her from unleashing her six weeks of Krav Maga training on the snivelly son of a bitch, too. (Which was probably for the best; she'd been a pretty poor student, and those classes had been almost five years ago. She probably wasn't a match for someone who trained on ropes courses suspended over fire.) Their relationship was . . . tumultuous, to say the least.

Actually, no: their relationship was _nonexistent._ And Gwen was more than happy to keep it that way.

He didn't seem bothered, either by her table manners or her lack of response. Instead he continued, his voice sliming over each word and emphasizing weird parts of each sentence. Quickly losing interest — and realizing she only needed to add hums of agreement to keep him happy — she scanned over the people sitting around the fire, surprised as usual by how few campers there were at Lake Lilac. Sure, part of it was because there were around twenty camps peppered along the lake, and who knew how many more in the deeper parts of the forest, but how was Camp Campbell the only one of their group to break into double digits? The Woodscouts' low enrollment made sense, because they were the worst, but when Gwen had been growing up, the Flower Scouts were a huge deal, and every girl went to their troop's summer camp.

Then again, there was one thing that had always bugged her about Troop 789. Turning to the redhead, who had settled alone a few seats away, she asked, "What's up with your, um . . . leader? Counselor?" What was the stupid term they'd used?

"Our Bush Trimmer?" she replied, and there was a brief moment of horror before Gwen realized the name was an unfortunate reference to rose bushes. "She's, like, _super_ busy, so she spends a lot of time away. Plus she's allergic to pollen, mold, fungi, grass, dirt, and sap, so she doesn't like to go outside when she's here." She beamed, her pink eyes sparkling. "She's the _best_. Her name's Aryianna, and she's like if Paris Hilton and Audrey Hepburn were the same person. She knows _all_ the right and wrong ways to wear pleather, and she's so cool, she lets us call her by her first name. I want her to trim my bush _so_ bad. Even though she's almost twenty-five, she's practically perfect."

Gwen desperately wanted to meet this woman, who sounded like ten different reality TV shows blended together. She also wanted to send a letter to the CEO of the Flower Scouts that just said, "Fucking SERIOUSLY?!" in giant letters. _Bush Trimmer . . . At least it makes #Pussies4Lyfe sound way less stupid_. "I'm Gwen, by the way," she said, noticing that Pikeman was still talking, apparently unaware she was ignoring him.

"Sasha." She daintily plucked a strawberry off her plate, inspecting it for imperfections. "Ugh, my friends are _sooo_ annoying." Popping the berry into her mouth, she stared up at Gwen with narrowed eyes. "Do you ever, like, love somebody even though they're just, like, the stupidest sometimes?"

She nearly choked on the all-natural fair-trade sugar-free lemonade the Flower Scouts had brought. "I, uh, can imagine what that feels like . . ."

"Erin and Tabii have gone totally boy crazy, and it's the absolute worst. And I don't even get _what_ they see in these trolls, because there is not a single guy here with any sort of eyebrow game, and the hair is just _horrible_." Sasha gestured with her drink toward the plump blonde sitting across the fire, trying to get Neil's attention while he steadfastly ignored her. "Like, Tabii, okay. She's the dumb one, I get it. She really doesn't understand how, like, anything works, so it's our job to protect her. And if I thought that weird crossdressing guy was gonna hurt her or something, Erin and I would show him our special Flower Scouts hospitality." She gave Gwen a significant look, implying . . . something.

Gwen had been a really bad Flower Scout. "Right. You'll kick his ass."

" _Exactly_. But he totally hates her. And I don't wanna have to deal with her being rejected — she rips the heads off of stuffed animals. I think Nikki taught it to her as a coping mechanism, but it's really messy and takes forever to sew them all back together. Tabii's like, like a sister to me, but she's really, _really_ stupid. It's part of her charm or something."

"Some people just can't take a hint," she replied through gritted teeth, slapping Pikeman's hand away when it landed on her knee for the third time. He couldn't be twenty. Didn't that make this illegal?

Sasha nodded. "And then there's Erin, who's like super into that Woodscouts creep with no hair. I get that he's rugged, but he also doesn't practice leg day, like, _ever_. She's been sitting next to him and that counselor dweeb all night, and it's crazy embarrassing. _So_ obvious."

"Um, Sasha?" Gwen glanced over at where the blue-haired girl and David were sitting, then over at Petrol, who was now flirting with Ered by the food table. "They're nowhere near each other."

Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. "Oh. My. Gawd. _Ew_."

Erin was sitting one log over from where David and Nikki were having a heated discussion; from his face and the rope made of Twizzlers she was holding, it had something to do with jumping off the peak. Every few moments Erin would glance up at them, then duck her head and pretend to be extremely interested in her phone. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself, sat up straight, and said something — from this distance neither of them could hear what it was, but Nikki pouted and bit into the rope. David smiled at her and she blushed, immediately turning back to her phone.

Sasha turned to Gwen, shaking her head like she couldn't quite believe what she'd seen. "Why are _all_ my friends into losers and weirdos?"

She hid her smile with another sip, watching her weirdo/loser pull out his guitar. She couldn't even be annoyed, though David's repertoire ranged from "lame" to "almost a parody of shitty campfire songs," with a quick stop over to "this probably sounded much less awkward in your head."

Before she could reply, a hand clamped down on her upper arm and spun her around so fast she almost fell off her log. "Sweet Gwendolyn," Pikeman said, getting down on one knee and taking her hand in his, "this has been a lovely evening. I hope this will not be the last time I see you. But a true Woodscout rises with the dawn, and to be well-rested I and my fellow Scouts must go. Goodnight." He lifted her hand to his lips and planted a long, wet kiss on it that made her skin crawl. Without another word, he rose to his feet and headed toward his tent, grabbing Petrol and Billy on the way.

She turned back to Sasha, her lips pressed tightly together.

The young girl watched Pikeman walk away, almost as shocked as Gwen. Finally she said, "Okay. Like, you win. Things can _always_ be worse."

* * *

She was already asleep when David crept into the tent, trying to unroll his sleeping bag in the blackness without waking her up. Of course, being David, he tripped over his feet and landed on her, jabbing his elbow into her side, but it was sweet of him to try.

"Good night?" she mumbled, rolling over and burying her face in his chest once he was all settled. He responded with a sleepy hum, resting his cheek on the top of her head. Now that she was awake, she couldn't resist teasing him a little bit. "Looks like you have an admirer."

"Mmm? What d'you mean?"

"The Flower Scout. You know, blue hair, covers one eye? She was following you around all night."

He snorted. "Don't be silly. I'm too old!"

Gwen turned onto her back, trying to meet his eyes in the darkness. "So you really don't get women at all, huh?" When he stared blankly back at her, she smiled and snuggled under one of his arms. "Everyone falls in love with someone older and wiser, especially when the kids their age are horrible. Come on, you never had a crush on a teacher or counselor?" She tried to remember the ones she'd seen on his bulletin board of old camp photos. "Not even the cute little brown-haired chick? Kinda Asiany or Hispanic or something?" (Was that racist? Was it less racist because she wasn't white, or did that make it _more_ racist somehow?)

There was a moment of thoughtful silence, which didn't surprise her; for someone who never seemed to think or listen much when in Counselor Mode, he was surprisingly pensive when they were alone. "I guess . . . I mean, I don't remember all that well, but yeah. I suppose I had . . . feelings for my counselors. Briefly."

"See? My point. It's cute, just don't break her heart." She was about to fall asleep when his words fully registered. "Wait. You said you had crush _es_? On your counselor _s_?"

"Um . . . Yes?"

"Wasn't one of them a big black guy?"

Silence. "I-is that a problem?"

For some reason this made her want to laugh, but he seemed so anxious she restrained herself. Wriggling up so she could kiss his forehead, she said, "Nah. You're just full of surprises, David."

"In a good way?"

"Always."


	2. End of Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kids move out, and Camp Campbell is finally empty. It never feels right without the kids there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, do you know R.A. Enbows? She's that awesome person who always betas my garbage and makes it less garbage-y? Well, she's doing that to the sequel, too! She also draws amazing Gwenvid art and amazing other art, and you should totally check her out: http://raenbowsofficial.tumblr.com/ (Hey, new story, new disclaimer, why not?)

"All right, campers! Time to get off the bus and —"

"Suck a dick, David!"

"Where'th my Potion of Perthepthion? I had it jutht a thecond ago!"

"I like, can't find my skateboard. This is _seriously_ uncool!"

"Gimme that, nerd!"

" _GERONIMO!_ "

Moving Out Day was always a bitch.

David jogged up to her side, trying to look casual despite the red welt developing along his jaw, which happened to be the exact size and shape of Nikki's sneaker. "Good morning!"

She was trying to unload the overfull bus, tossing backpacks and suitcases onto the grass next to the bus station without worrying about which kid picked up what. The parents were due any minute, and the sooner they were gone, the sooner she could start drinking. "Not in the mood," she snapped, heaving Ered's monstrous dirt bike off the back of the bus with a grunt.

He took the other side of the bike, helping her set it down with fastidious care. "I know," he replied. "I'll miss everyone, too. But think of what a wonderful summer we've had!"

"Wonderful" was maybe a bit of a stretch. This year had been more erratic, poorly-funded, and all-around disastrous than any she'd had. And almost all of that could be blamed on their boss, who had a knack for showing up just in time to make everything worse, and disappear a second later with another slice of their budget.

But . . . well, there'd been some pretty good moments, too.

Before she could reply, there was a cheer of excitement as a tiny orange car careened up the road, followed by a groan of disappointment from everyone who wasn't being picked up. The little vehicle jerked to a halt and three huge men burst out of it, rushing to Scotty and scooping the Visual Comedy camper up without a word. They squeezed everything into the car, which she was pretty sure defied physics, then motored away with a honk that sounded like a clown horn.

David glanced down at his watch. "Nine-thirty!" he exclaimed. "Just in time."

"Is it bad that I kind of hope Scotty doesn't come back next year?"

"Hey, we don't say things like that about our campers!"

She rolled her eyes. "You were thinking it."

"Don't be silly! I hope _all_ of our campers return next summer!"

"Okay, now look me in the eyes and say that."

He scoffed, flustered. "Gwen, this is ridiculous. Of course I can — oh, look at that! I should go, um . . . check on the Quartermaster! Be right back!" He hurried off, leaving her to people-watch. She always enjoyed seeing the parents. Maybe it was her useless Psychology degree, maybe it was just that she was bored, but there was something fascinating about the people who were responsible for molding the little monsters they dropped at her feet every summer.

Dolph's parents arrived, arguing loudly about whether or not they were on time or two minutes late. They were both insanely tall, with cornsilk hair and blue eyes, and neither had a trace of a German accent.

"It is so nice to meet one of little Dolph's counselors," the mother said, not as much _shaking_ her hand as gently placing her long, cold fingers against Gwen's palm and quickly pulling them away. She was like velvet stretched over iron, her delicate, porcelain-doll features at odds with strong shoulders and wide hips; though she looked like she spent more time in the salon than the gym, Gwen suspected that this woman could kick her ass. She and her son had the same eyes, and they were just as huge and bright on her face as on his.

Dolph's father picked up all of his son's belongings in his giant, meaty arms and carted them over to their Volkswagen, then stood in front of his son, towering over him. "Did you obey your elders?" he boomed, his eyes narrowing into flinty shards. His jaw and cheekbones looked like they could cut glass — the only family resemblance was in the way both men stood, with their arms behind their backs and their black-booted legs together.

"Yes, sir!" Dolph saluted.

"Did you prove yourself powerful and worthy of our family name?"

"Yes! I vas even put in charge of ze camp for _eins_ day, _und_ I vas avarded for _mein_ order _und_ leadership! I have ze trophy to prove it!"

Dolph's father glared him down for a few seconds, then broke into a smile that was the mirror image of Dolph's before scooping the little boy up like he was a pillow. Hoisting him onto his shoulders, he joined his wife and Gwen. "He has made us proud."

"I knew he would," his mother agreed, beaming up at Dolph like he wasn't a pseudo-fascist little weirdo. They turned back to her, all of them with identical smiles that were both adorable and very creepy.

"Uh, real quick," Gwen blurted out before she could stop herself, "are you guys . . . German, by any chance?"

"What?" They exchanged incredulous glances, then the mother stepped in. "No, we're from Poland. Jewish."

" _Ja_!" Dolph jumped in. "I drew ze Star of David on my arm zis morning!"

She'd never realized the Star of David could look so much like a swastika. "No kidding?"

"Yes." She cocked her head to the side. "Is that surprising?"

Gwen shook her head, holding up her hands in defeat — or self-defense, she wasn't sure which. "Nope. Just curious. Have a great year."

No sooner had they left then Nikki bounded over, dragging a short, bespectacled man behind her. "Gwen, meet my dad!"

"It's a p-p-pleasure to m-meet you," he stammered, holding out a tremulous hand to her. "I hope my N-Nikki was not t-t-too much trouble." He had dark blue hair that fell in curly waves over his forehead, and pink eyes a few shades lighter than Nikki's. His dress shirt and tie were spotless, and he kept stopping their conversation to polish his glasses.

They even had the same bandage over their left cheeks, though his fussy, buttoned-up demeanor made Gwen think that he got injured due to chance instead of adventure.

"Not at all. She's fun." And, actually, Gwen was surprised to find that she meant it. Of all the weird and frustrating changes that had happened this summer, getting two new campers was one of the few highlights.

"W-wonderful. Thank you for taking c-care of her." He helped Nikki to a monstrous black motorcycle, where she threw her belongings into the sidecar and leapt onto the handlebars with a shriek of glee, only reluctantly putting on a leather jacket and helmet when her father held them out to her. They roared down the mountain, leaving a huge cloud of dust in their wake.

Okay, maybe they were a bit more alike than they looked.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of greetings and handshakes: Ered's mother was impossibly cool, wearing clothes that probably cost more than Gwen's apartment; Nurf's parents were frail and exhausted, though they seemed to dote on their son as much as they were terrified of him. She'd hoped to learn Space Kid's real name when his parents came to pick him up, but they referred to him by the nickname as well, and told Gwen to call them "Space Mom" and "Space Dad."

"Prestooooooon!" The operatic note cracked the air, making the bus windows shake, and a huge blonde woman threw herself out of the car and launched toward her son, weeping like they'd been separated for years instead of months. His father lingered near Gwen, delivering a soliloquy that probably would've been impressive if she could've heard it, but her ears were still ringing from his wife's voice.

She didn't see Harrison's parents arrive or leave; all of a sudden she heard him shout goodbye, and when she turned the only trace of him was a wilted daisy that had somehow been tucked behind her left ear. "What the —"

"Counthelor Gwen!" The next second she was nearly bowled over, barely catching herself against the side of the bus. The tip of a blue felt hat brushed against her elbow, and she looked down to see Nerris clinging to her legs. She tipped her head back, nearly losing her hat, and flashed a metallic smile. "I'll mith you!"

"Uh, yeah. Me too, Sorceress." Gwen gently disentangled herself from Nerris, dropping to her knees to meet the little girl in the eye. "Maybe I'll be here next year, and we can play more of that Magic thing. I was getting pretty good at it." Around the beginning of July, the entire camp had been trapped in the mess hall for twelve hours due to a surprise thunderstorm, and since Gwen left all of her reading material in the cabin, she'd been sucked into the game. David had lost almost immediately by refusing to attack anyone, but she'd had a lot of fun.

Nerris snorted. "You were _okay_ , I gueth," she conceded. "You have good inthinctths." She gave her a brief hug, then hurried off to where two women stood by a car that looked almost exactly like the Batmobile. "Bye, guyth!" she called, waving at everyone before turning to her moms, chattering excitedly as she was loaded into the superhero car.

Gwen glanced over at David and saw that he was watching her. She wasn't close enough to tell if his eyes were watering, but he had one hand pressed over his heart and the other over his mouth, and she could tell that he was overjoyed that she had friends.

Tiny, weird, entirely age-inappropriate friends, but friends nonetheless.

* * *

It had been almost two hours since they'd arrived, and now only Max and Neil remained, sitting under a nearly-dead tree that provided all the shade in the area. The Quartermaster tinkered around with the bus, and she and David hovered awkwardly on opposite sides of the clearing, alternately making eye contact, watching over the kids, and staring off into the distance. She tried not to eavesdrop on the campers — and it was too windy to make out much, anyway — but she caught snatches of conversation as it blew by:

"They're talking about making me go to boarding school _._ They say it's because the teachers are better but I know they just want the house to themselves now that Kayla's moved out —"

"I have to read some shit in Hebrew, but I won't know what it says and for all I know it could be a cookie recipe or the directions for summoning Cthulhu or porn or something —"

"— do you know what a blumpkin is? I heard my sister and her friends talking and —"

"— it's a legitimate strategy!"

Finally Neil's mother arrived, and he and Max shared an uncomfortable look before doing that half-hug-back-clap thing guys always did. "You want us to stick around?" Neil asked, tugging nervously at his afro.

"My parents didn't forget me. New York is far as fuck, that's all." To Gwen's surprise, he climbed to his feet and helped carry Neil's luggage to the car. "Besides, I'm sure _Davey_ would adopt me if they don't show up."

Neil shuddered. "Don't even joke about that, man."

His mother sidled over to Gwen, leaving the boys to say goodbye in relative privacy. "I hope he wasn't any trouble," she said. She had long brown hair straightened and wrangled into a 1960s bouffant that looked much better than it had any right to. Complete with a head scarf and giant sunglasses, she looked like she'd just walked off the set of an old movie. "He's a nice boy, but sometimes I worry he's too smart for his own good."

Why did they always want to talk to her? David was so much better at getting adults to like him, even if he did come across a bit overenthusiastic. "Uh, no, he was fine. Great kid." Feeling compelled to keep talking but having no idea what to say, she added, "Very . . . um, science-y and stuff."

Neil's mother studied the boys with her chin in one hand, absently tapping her fingers against her lips. "And he made friends?"

"Well, I mean, he's talking to one of them right now, so . . ." Shit, that was rude. This was why Mr. Campbell usually had her and the Quartermaster hide in the pantry whenever parents came to visit. "But they hung out a lot with another camper, Nikki. They were pretty close to her, I guess."

"A girl?" She glanced over just long enough for Gwen's confirming nod before returning her gaze to the children, who were trying to kick rocks at David without _looking_ like they were kicking rocks at David. "That's good to hear. His father was always terrible at talking to women, and I was worried Neil would end up . . . different from other boys his age. And he doesn't need that on top of his other  _difficulties_." His mother gave her a meaningful look — the meaning of which she missed entirely.

It was probably a bad idea to mention that Nikki wasn't exactly a traditional girl. It was also probably a bad idea to point out to this complete stranger that she was kind of being a dick to her son, so Gwen just muttered, "Yeah, kids are weird," scuffing her boot along the dirt.

She nodded briskly, straightening her skirt and turning to shake Gwen's hand. "Anyway, it was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. —"

"Santos, but the kids just go with Gwen."

"Oh?" She looked her over with new interest, the delicate arch of her eyebrows raising. "What a lovely name. Mexican?"

"Puerto Rican, but I think my great-grandfather or something came from like Portugal —" That was probably too much information. "You know what? Mexican's fine. Have a safe drive."

Jesus, she hated this. At least on Moving-In Day the counselors waited at the camp. (She had no idea what the parents said to the Quartermaster, or why anyone would let their children get on a bus with him, but at least she got to avoid all the pointless small talk.) Gwen looked over at David, who was beaming at her again and gave her a thumbs-up when their eyes met. Of course he couldn't hear a word they'd said, so whatever he imagined probably made her sound way less spastic and weird than the reality.

It was still kinda sweet, though.

"So how was it?" they could just hear Neil's mother say. "I hope it wasn't too much of a disappointment. The brochure said nothing about the staff, and I expected them to be a bit less _unusual_."

"You know? It really wasn't that bad."

And then there was just Max. Figuring she didn't have to keep hovering by the bus — and starting to get worried by the increasingly-loud clanks and rattles of whatever QM was doing to the engine — she wandered over to where he was sitting on his suitcase, watching Neil's minivan drive away. "How you doing?"

He glared up at her in disdain. "I'm not gonna start crying about how my parents don't love me just because I'm the last one here. I'm _always_ the last one. I don't give a fuck, except that I want to be away from you guys as soon as possible."

David started to come over and she held up a hand where Max couldn't see, shaking her head very slightly. It wasn't like she expected some heart to heart or anything, but he was in a bad mood, and while there were many things her coworker was great at, cheering Max up was _definitely_ not one of them. "The city is far," she said casually. "And your parents are really busy, aren't they?"

"Doctor, lawyer, high-powered career types trying to make it work in the New World and all that. And now you want me to tell you all about how they don't have enough time for me." Max rolled his eyes. "How'd you even get your useless shrink degree? You suck at this." She didn't have a child-appropriate response to that, so she just stayed quiet. A few seconds later he made a disgusted noise, shaking his head so his floppy curls bounced around his face. "I fucking _wish_ they didn't have time for me. They're always trying to send me to places like this, and music classes and all that _improvement_ bullshit. Fucking waste of money. Like I want to learn how to play a goddamn harp."

"That's gotta be annoying." She was trying to sound cool and nonchalant, but neither of those things came naturally to her.

He glowered, not buying the act for a second. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing. I'm not gonna open up for you so that you can report back to David and he'll piss his pants in excitement thinking someone 'got through to me.'" He fidgeted, his gaze dropping to the ground. "You're just lucky I'm bored."

Honestly? So was she. "It's cool you get to do all that stuff," she said, sitting down in the grass so he didn't have to crane his neck to give her dirty looks. "I hated those kinds of things as a kid, but you learn a lot."

"That's what they say, too." He drew random lines in the dirt with the toe of his sneaker. "It's always 'we want you to have the opportunities we never had,' but it's not my fault they grew up in India. And even if I _could_ be some superstar athlete genius musician whatever the fuck, I shouldn't have to just so they can feel better about their failures."

"Do you feel like you're one of those failures?"

His eyes narrowed into turquoise slits. "Stop. Shrinking. Me."

She looked away to hide a smile, wondering why it was so much easier to spar with this caustic little boy than exchange pleasantries with adults. "My parents wanted me to be a lawyer like my sister, or an accountant. Three of my brothers are — one of them owns a surf shop in California, but we don't talk about him much. I was the youngest, so they always wanted to make sure that I was the one they got 'right.'"

"Well, they must be pretty disappointed." When she didn't answer, he sighed, picking at a loose thread in his hoodie. "Sounds like my sister, though. Your fuckup brother, I mean. Think I learned to talk like this from my _parents_?

"I think she's in Hawaii right now. Dropped out of college last semester to chase her dream of living in a volcano or something. She texts me sometimes, when she has money for her phone." He wrapped the string of his sweatshirt around his finger, cutting off the circulation and watching the skin swell and redden. "She said she was gonna bring me with her, when she had enough money. Like, just before I left for camp, she called me and told me that. She's been saying it since I was five. I knew it was bullshit even then, but it's not her fault she's too stupid to know any better."

Her fingers itched to free his strangling finger before it lost all feeling, but she restrained herself. "Do you want to live with her?"

"God, no. She's a fucking spaz. She spent her first semester in college majoring in _fireflies —_ not studying bugs or biology or anything: just fireflies. It involved interpretive dance, I think. She went to one of those fake colleges where you can do whatever you want as long as your parents fork out the money." He glanced over at David, who was playing with his phone and _almost_ successfully looking like he wasn't interested in their conversation. "She's like _him_ , except she has the balls to use 'bad language.'" He emphasized these last two words with a cruel (but accurate) mimic of David's voice. "But she always thinks shit's gonna work out for everyone. And it always does for her, because my parents bail her out when she loses all her money trying to raise chickens or whatever dumb 'dream' she wants to waste her life on, or if she gives it all away to some douchebag boyfriend who steals her dog. She doesn't get how much of an asshole she is. Like she has no idea how much it hurts u — our parents to watch her hit the ground over and over again. What kind of idiot keeps letting themselves get fucked over like that?"

Despite his harsh words, there was something surprisingly gentle in his tone. It reminded her of the night he'd saved the Order of the Sparrow for David. "But you don't hate her like you hate him?"

He groaned, dropping his head so his hair flopped in front of his eyes. "Because she's not in my face all the goddamn time! She can think whatever she wants, she knows not to try and make _me_ believe it." Giving up on the string, he crossed his arms over his knees and leaned forward. "Besides, she'll never have to deal with the fact that the world sucks and everyone's terrible, because my parents are always gonna protect her. They're always trying to do that for us, pretend like everything's fine and safe and all that. Which is stupid, because they've _seen_ shit. They know better. But they don't want us to know better? The fuck kinda logic is that?" He finally met her eyes, looking like he wanted confirmation that his family was crazy. "It's better to know that things suck, isn't it?" He was quiet for a moment, and Gwen thought the conversation was over. "Kayla . . . she's always organizing these protests for Occupy Wall Street or Black Lives Matter or whatever the fuck. She was always talking about that stuff to me when we were little, pulling me out of school and dragging me to Central Park to wave signs or graffiti a wall. My parents _hated_ it, which only made us do it more." They heard the distant rumble of a car and he started talking faster, like he wouldn't be able to get any of this out once their isolation was broken. "She does all that because she _seriously_ thinks people are good enough to start caring about shit if it's just pointed out to them enough. She always believes everyone's going to be better than they are, and is always so sad when nothing changes. Maybe if she just realized that we're all selfish and shortsighted, she could grow up and be a normal person, and not be so disappointed by people all the time. Because she'll expect them to be a disappointment. I mean, that just makes _sense_ , right?"

Gwen swallowed back a lump in her throat, trying not to look like she cared about anything he was saying. If he thought she pitied him, he'd never forgive her. Sure, _she_ was sometimes prone to severe bouts of cynicism, but it was hard to see so much negativity crammed into such a small boy. "Your sister sounds kinda thoughtless."

"Nah, she's not bad. Dumb, but still pretty cool. I figure when I'm older we'll live someplace close to each other, hang out like we used to." Max shrugged and climbed to his feet as a long blue car pulled up to the station. "None of this shit gets back to David. Or my parents, or anybody. We did not have a _moment_ " — he stuck his finger in her face to accentuate the point — "and you better not go around thinking this was some sort of breakthrough or whatever. I was bored. For all you know I made all that up to fuck with you, so . . . yeah. Just forget about it." Without a word of farewell to either of the counselors, he stalked off to the car as a small man in a well-tailored suit stepped out to meet him.

"Max!" he boomed, his heavily-accented voice way too large for his body. "How was your summer?"

His eyes were wide as he was squashed in a ferocious hug. "What are you doing here? Where's Mom?"

The man released him, heaving the luggage into the trunk of the car. "Aunt Palak and Uncle Sujay are visiting for the month, and your mother has been working day and night to get everything ready for them. So she sent me to get you! The good news is you'll get to spend some time with Vishwanath. Won't that be nice?"

Max rolled his eyes, dropping back into his usual surliness with ease. "I fucking _hate_ Vish, Dad. He's like a brown Justin Bieber, only shittier. There's no way he's related to me — I'm pretty sure Aunt Palak just picked him up out of a box and took him home and nobody told Uncle Sujay."

With an affectionate laugh, he ruffled the boy's hair. "What are we going to do with you?" He looked around, wincing. "Last one, huh? Sorry I'm late, but I missed the exit and Siri kept telling me to take a U-turn on a one-way street . . . Do you know this whole area looks like _Deliverance_? Can't believe you survived the summer!"

"You're telling _me_ ," Max muttered, shoving his hands deep in his hoodie's pockets. "It's not like I wanted to be here anyway."

His father's smile was sympathetic, if a little patronizing. "I know, kiddo. But it's a good experience to spend time outdoors. Builds character." His eyes landed on David and Gwen, who had drifted together as the two talked, and he beamed. "And you must be the counselors! My son has told me so much about both of you!"

"Really?" She and David met each other's eyes; there was no way Max had said anything good.

"Glad to finally meet you! Reyansh Sahni. You've met my wife, Anika?" He shook their hands, his palms warm and soft and even smaller than hers. "I hear you two keep this place running."

Max looked just as confused as they did. "Dad, I said he's a moron and she's a lazy asshole."

He grinned at them and winked. "Just imagine how he talks about people he _doesn't_ like."

With a quick farewell he herded Max back to the car, and she was surprised by how comparatively talkative the kid was — even if most of it seemed like sarcasm and complaining. The other years, Max had been picked up by his mom, and the atmosphere was much different; she was a soft-spoken woman who looked on the verge of nervous collapse every time they saw her. She and her son spoke little but smiled a lot, her replying with a resigned "Oh, _Max_ " in response to his colorful commentary on the camp. Now that Gwen saw who she lived with, her exhaustion made more sense, as did the strange instructions written on Max's camp application: _"Just keep him away from the house and out of prison."_

Yeah, that explained a lot.

* * *

"Well, that's everyone." David looked around at the empty station with a sigh. "I guess we're done."

She had to tread carefully here. If she came out and asked how he was doing, he'd immediately leap into "everything's fine!" mode and force himself to be happy so she wouldn't worry. Instead she turned their attention to something she _knew_ he'd want to talk about: "So how much of that did you overhear?"

"I wasn't eavesdropping!" he blurted out, defensive even though he hadn't done anything wrong. "But . . . well, the wind _did_ die down a bit, and . . ." He trailed off, looking adorably guilty. "It was nice to hear him open up," he mumbled, fiddling with his bandanna and avoiding eye contact.

"Guess all you have to do is leave him alone for a few hours. Kid loves the sound of his own voice." David nodded, trying and failing to act like he wasn't dying to keep talking about Max. Taking pity on him, she continued, "I mean, it's gotta be a relief to know he's not being abused or whatever. I always assumed at least one of his parents was a sociopath, to make him so . . . you know, _Max_."

He frowned. "Come on, that's not —"

"Oh, please, like you didn't sneak into his tent at night and check for bruises." His mouth dropped open, his cheeks flushing bright red, and she rolled her eyes. "David, I stopped being surprised that you're an overprotective weirdo about the kids _years_ ago." She unlocked her phone and held it out to him. "If it makes you feel better, I have the local CPS in my contacts. Just in case."

His eyes filled with tears. "I _knew_ you cared!" Before she could protest, he wrapped her up in a crushing hug, lifting her off the ground and kissing the top of her head. Almost instantly, he dropped her with an anxious glance toward the bus — which was now smoking pink and making fizzing noises. The QM's feet could be seen sticking out from underneath it, so she assumed they were in the clear.

"Besides, now we know why he hates you. That's useful."

"Stop that! He doesn't _hate_  — children don't — um, what do we know, again?"

She snuggled closer as the wind picked up, blasting mountain-chilled air across the clearing. "You remind him of Kayla. They sounded so close when he was little, and then —" She snapped her fingers, reveling in the chance to actually _use_ her outrageously expensive degree. "Gone. Kept promising to take him with her, kept abandoning him to parents he feels are smothering. But he still looks up to her, so instead of blaming her, he blames everyone. If the _world_ is terrible and everyone is doomed to be assholes, then it's not his sister's fault if _she's_ an asshole, she's just another victim of the world's shittiness."

He nodded slowly, pooching out his lower lip in thought. "So I'm . . . his sister?"

She sighed. " _So_ he represses all of this resentment toward her, develops this cynical worldview to protect himself, and then he meets you. You _remind_ him of his sister, those feelings start to resurface, and he takes out all of the disappointment and anger he feels for _her_ on you, because he loves and idolizes her too much to admit that she's let him down." She paused, realizing that she must sound like everything Max hated about shrinks. "I mean, we'd need someone way smarter than me to talk to him regularly and study the family for hours — all of this is just kinda bullshit speculation with no proof — but as a working theory it might . . . considering it's all we have . . ."

David stared at her, wide-eyed with awe. "That's amazing!"

Every single one of her professors would probably disagree, but Gwen had to admit that she liked feeling smart. "Anyway, it's not your fault, so try not to take him too personally next year?"

"Mmm-hmm." He seemed to have stopped listening, his brow furrowed as he looked down the road as though he could see Max's car still.

She let him think for a few minutes, then tugged on his elbow, leaning up to peck his cheek. "Come on. We gotta be down at The Only Bar by three, and" — she glanced at the bus, which was now playing "Treat You Better" at top volume, but somehow kept looping  _only_ the part where Mendes shrieks "BEDDA THAN HE CAN" — "I don't think we'll be getting a ride any time soon."

* * *

"What is _that_?" Bonquisha nearly dropped her drink as Gwen slid into the booth across from her, a mass of brown fur in her arms. "That's the most fucked-up cat I've ever seen."

"Mueh." The animal lifted its head, giving them all a distinctly unimpressed look.

She leapt back so fast she almost crawled over the back of the booth, holding her margarita in front of her like a shield. "Shit, what's wrong with its face?" She glanced from one counselor to the other, a horrifying thought occurring to her. "It's not like, your baby, is it? Is that what white-people babies look like?"

"I'm still not —" Gwen sighed. "Never mind."

David jumped in smoothly, setting a beer and a Shirley Temple on the table. "Bonquisha, this is Platypus. He's Camp Campbell's mascot!"

She leaned in close, warily meeting the animal's eyes for a few seconds, then settled back in her seat. "It's weird," she approved. Weird things were always cool with her. "What is it?"

"A . . . uh, platypus." David shrugged, playing with his straw absently. "We couldn't really think of a name."

Gwen smirked. " _You_ couldn't."

"For the last time, we can't name him Pussy. It's inappropriate!"

" _Everything_ about the camp is inappropriate! At least this is funny."

Bonquisha watched them bicker, feeling those warm fuzzies people get watching their kids learn how to walk. They grew up so fast. "You gone get in trouble. They don't even let seeing-eye dogs in here."

"Fine." Gwen muscled her way past David and escaped the booth. "I'll tie him up outside." Fumbling in her bag for a collar and leash, she added, "I don't know why I have to take him, anyway. My roommates are going to _kill_ me. We're not allowed to have pets."

"But Gwen, my mom's allergic!"

"To platypi?" She frowned. "Platypuses? Platypus?" Hoisting the mascot over her forearm, she headed out, waving at the annoyed-looking bartender dismissively. "We're leaving, Jesus."

David watched her go, probably unaware of the dopey-looking smile he had on his face (even dopier than usual, anyway). He didn't turn back around until Bonquisha cleared her throat, smirking at him over her drink. "Yes?"

"Pretty sure you owe me twenty dollars."

He turned almost as pink as his Shirley Temple, stirring it intently and avoiding her eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said primly, his lips pressing together in a thin line.

"You think I dunno what two people fuckin' look like?" She actually hadn't been positive — that boy was so oblivious it bordered on stupid, and his lady wasn't any better — but his strangled "eep!" of surprise confirmed it. She barked out a loud laugh, taking the twenty he sheepishly held out to her. "Good for you, Dave. Knew you had it in ya."

"Bonquisha," the bartender warned, just loud enough to hear across the empty room. He was leaning on the bar with a rag slung over his shoulder. "You best settle down now."

"Sorry, Ted," she replied, giving him a half salute. "Won't happen again." Ted made a noncommittal noise and went back to cleaning glasses, turning his attention to Gwen as she came back inside as though she might've smuggled the platypus back in.

"What was that?" she asked, shoving David over and sitting back down.

Bonquisha rolled her eyes. "Fun's illegal, remember?" She leaned in close and said, "I know I don't gotta worry about you, Gloomy, but I can't never take Dave anywhere. Sonofabitch is always too damn happy."

"So you invited us out to _not_ have fun with you?"

"Better than not having fun all by myself, right?" She laughed again — ignoring Ted's loud sigh — and flicked the lime in her glass at them. "C'mon, I won't see ya for a whole year . . . and besides, it's not like you two have anythin'  _better_ to do." She rested her chin in her hands with a smug grin.

There was a moment of silence. Then:

"Of _course_ you told her." Gwen's expression didn't change, and she didn't even look over at David. Completely deadpan, she threw back half of her beer and settled into her seat.

He opened his mouth, holding one finger in the air. "Technically," he began, then froze, clearly trying to think up an excuse, "I didn't . . . _tell_ her."

"I figured it out because Imma goddamn genius," Bonquisha said triumphantly. "Obviously."

Gwen held out her hand to David. "Told you."

With a small whine of protest, he pulled out his wallet again, giving her a bill and crossing his arms. "I don't know _why_ I agreed to that," he muttered, pouting.

"No worries, sweetie, the drinks're on me. Least I can do since you came all the way out here just to entertain me." She gestured with her margarita to indicate they should continue talking. "So spill. When'd it happen, where'd it happen, how'd it happen?" She wiggled her eyebrows and added, "How many _times_ did it happen?"

"It _didn't_ ," Gwen said sternly. Even though the place was empty, she looked around and lowered her voice. "We're not a thing."

Bonquisha looked at David, confused. "Should I give this money back then? I ain't gonna, but should I feel bad about it?"

He cleared his throat, drawing spirals in the condensation from their drinks. "It turns out it's . . . not encouraged for employees to date. It's in the Handbook."

She let out a squeal of joy, clapping in excitement. "You breaking the rules? I'm so proud of you, Dave!" She beamed from one to the other, her eyes getting misty. "Look at you two, living your rebel fantasy."

" _But we're not_ ," Gwen replied, slicing a hand across her throat and glaring over at Ted — who, to his credit, didn't look like he was paying any attention to them, his gaze intently focused on the screen above the bar. "Since we don't want to lose our jobs, as far as anyone here knows we're just _friends_ —"

"— and Dave here's gay as all fuck," Bonquisha finished, nodding along. "I gotcha."

David frowned, cocking his head to the side. "Is that what people think about me?" Both women snorted, but his expression turned thoughtful. "That . . . explains a lot, actually. Wait!" He turned to Gwen. "Is that why Max keeps putting magazine pictures of naked men on my Camp clipboard? Do you think he's trying to reach out to a . . . a kindred spirit?" He pressed his hand to his heart, growing misty. "Oh, how brave of him! And I feel so honored that he trusted me with his secret!"

"What?!" She looked outraged. " _That's_ who's been cutting up my magazines? That little shit!"

"Gwen, this is a beautiful moment!"

"Not for my _Playgirls_ it wasn't! Those are expensive!"

"But, _Gwennn_ —"

It was too damn much. "You fuckin' weirdos!" They both turned to Bonquisha as she _thunk_ ed her head on the table, hooting with laughter. "You're so — so perfect for each other. You more batshit crazy than anyone else I ever met!"

"Now, folks." Ted walked over to them, crossing his arms over his chest. "I hate to do this," he said, "but you need to find somewhere else to go. I can't have this kind of rowdiness in my bar — I don't want to get arrested, ya hear."

Bonquisha sighed; this was hardly a new occurrence for her. In fact, she considered it a dull night if she made it a full hour without getting thrown out for criminal fun-having. "All right," she replied, then turned back to them. " _Wheel of Fortune_ 's on at five. I got grape juice for this one" — she jerked her head in David's direction — "and a big thing of Malibu. You in?"

Gwen eyed her, considering. "Any chocolate?"

"Girl, what kinda ho you think I am?" She snorted, tossing her head. " _Of course_ I got chocolate."

"Then what are we still doing here?"

Bonquisha had to admit, she'd miss these losers. Things were a lot quieter without them.

* * *

Gwen nuzzled against David's shoulder, letting him support most of her weight as he led the way back to the Counselors' Cabin. "I can't believe I'm saying this," she murmured, handing him her keys so he didn't have to pull away to look for his own, "but it's actually too quiet without those brats running around. It's creepy."

He unlocked the door and ushered her inside, turning to look out over the lake like he did every night. "I know. Camp Campbell doesn't feel right when it's this empty." He sighed, leaning against the doorframe. "I miss them. Don't you?"

 _Did_ she?

Even though she definitely still hated this place, the last night of the summer wasn't as much of a relief as usual. It didn't feel right, all this emptiness. It felt too much like something was ending.

She ducked under one of his arms, wrapping her arms around his waist. "The bright side," she said, dropping her voice to a murmur, "is that I don't have to worry about getting in trouble for this." Tightening her hold on him, she kissed a slow, sloppy line from his earlobe to his chin, relishing the way his breathing roughened slightly. "For one night, anyway."

"Not just one." He turned his head to meet her mouth, snagging her bottom lip with his teeth before pulling back and pecking her on the nose. "There's always moving-in day, too."

Gwen smiled, dropping her head to rest it on his shoulder. The counselors moved in the day before the campers, in order to help the Quartermaster with last-minute preparations. The first and last day of every summer, the counselors basically had the camp to themselves.

It was nice to know he thought that far ahead. Not that _she_ did, but . . .

Oh, who was she kidding? She could hope for the best, couldn't she? It wasn't like being cynical had gotten her very far up till now. Besides, David's optimism was as contagious as it was annoying. "Right," she agreed, her happiness dimming. "If I'm still here."

David stiffened, and for a second she was worried he was going to pull away, that she'd upset him or made him angry somehow. But then his arms wrapped around her, holding her close to his chest, and she let herself relax. "Yeah," he said, resting his chin on the top of her head. "And if not, it'll be because you're doing something even better, and that'll be good, too."

They stood like that for a minute or two, watching the Pirate Camp have their last sailing trip of the summer. "You'll come see me, right?" Her voice was small, to her embarrassment, and she felt vaguely anxious — though she didn't know why. It wasn't like she expected him to reject her or anything, but . . . she didn't exactly have the best track record, as far as relationships were concerned. Gwen had a habit of caring too much; she'd been told that by more than one ex. She put too much hope in things too quickly, and set herself up for disappointment. It never ended well.

"Can I?" There was something fragile and buoyant in his tone; maybe she wasn't the only one who was worried.

"Yes," she declared, tilting her head back until her nose bumped against his cheekbone. "Because trust me, you're gonna miss this."

His brow furrowed. "Miss what?"

She rolled her eyes. "Just kiss me, you idiot."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an embarrassingly long chapter, because yes, I had to write about every. Single. Kid's. Parents. I love these kids, and wanted to waste time headcanon-ing. I'm just sad that I didn't get to write more of Protective!Neil-and-Nikki, because in my world they're both subconsciously convinced that Max is a fragile little floof who needs to be taken care of with liberal helpings of sarcasm and violence. (He thinks this is bullshit, but secretly likes being fussed over.) Also, I did base the appearance of Neil's mom entirely on a young Barbra Streisand. Because Barbra is beautiful, okay? And I wanted to look at pictures of her and cry, which I did. A lot.
> 
> Max was obviously the most fun. I know the popular headcanon is that he has abusive parents, which makes total sense, but I was curious what would happen if he'd actually had decent ones. Like, how would he end up like that if he wasn't being treated like shit all the time? And that's how Kayla Sahni was born, because I love sibling relationships, especially big-sister/little-brother ones.
> 
> Tangentially related: um, so I know begging for fanart is really tacky, but I have no pride, so if any of you enjoy art-ing and would like to draw . . . well, anything, but especially Max and his big sis and/or any other family that gave you heart feelings, I would cry and promote you on every site ever. Including Snapchat. And Grindr. And I might, like, print a bunch out and tape them all over my neighborhood.
> 
> Also, Indian names are beautiful, and I'm jealous of everyone who has one.


	3. O, Canada

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's harder being apart than they'd expected, but it makes the times they can see each other that much more special. Gwen visits David in the beautiful land to the north. (Part 1 of 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was partially edited by R. A. Enbows (http://raenbowsofficial.tumblr.com), with the exception of the smut. In addition, two amazing authors, HopefullyPessimistic (http://archiveofourown.org/users/HopefullyPessimistic/) and MundaneChampagne (http://archiveofourown.org/users/MundaneChampagne) let me foist my work upon them and provide feedback. And on TOP of that, Ciphernetics listened to me whine about hating this chapter until their ears probably fell off and refused to let me give up. 
> 
> All four of these people are extraordinary, and they all deserve your love and kudos.
> 
> ALSO! HI!! PLEASE READ THIS!!! I'M MAKING IT AS LOUD AND DIFFICULT TO IGNORE AS POSSIBLE IN THE HOPES THAT YOU WON'T SKIP PAST IT!!!!!
> 
> Anyway, as mentioned earlier in this note, there is a bit of smut in this chapter. It's in the third scene, and not relevant to the plot in any way, so my feelings won't be hurt if you skip it. I didn't want to mark it off in the chapter with like a bolded warning or something, because that'd kind of cut off the flow of the story, but just be prepared.

**October 2016**

Gwen hovered at the edge of the milling crowd, trying to look like she knew exactly what she was doing. _There's nothing to be worried about_ , she told herself, standing on her tiptoes and searching for a flash of yellow or red. It wasn't like this was the first time she'd ever taken a train, for Christ's sake. Of course, it _was_ the first time she'd taken a train out of the country, leaving a moderately-poisonous pet at home to be cared for by her unenthusiastic roommates, to see her long-distance boyfriend, meet his mother, and hopefully win her over despite the fact that she was unemployed, deeply misanthropic, and fucking this woman's only child.

So maybe there were a _couple_ of things to be worried about.

"Gwen!" She was practically tackled from behind, a pair of skinny arms keeping her from falling over onto a passing old couple. "You weren't waiting long, were you?"

She turned as much as she could, lightly slapping his chest to make him let her go. "Shit, David, don't sneak up on people like that! You're lucky it was me and not someone with pepper spray."

"I _checked_ ," he replied defensively, but took a few steps back to let her breathe. His smile widened as he looked her over, and she could practically feel the restraint it took not to hug her again. "You're wearing real clothes! I didn't know what to expect, but you look very nice."

"Nice?" Gwen snorted. "We seriously need to work on your compliments." At the same time, she tugged at the hem of her skirt, pleased. She'd opted for a wine-colored sweater dress and cabled gray leggings that probably didn't match, but it was fucking cold for the end of October and she wasn't going to sacrifice comfort for the sake of fashion. She had put a lot of effort into her hair, though; there was enough product in it to poison the country's water supply, but at least her carefully-shaped curls had survived the train ride. Ignoring the fact that her only coat was an army-green bomber jacket, she looked ready to charm the shit out of every mom in Canada.

Okay, she looked like a librarian. But a librarian was better than a starving artist or lesbian, which were more her aesthetic. Besides, her own mother had bought this dress, insisting that it would "flatter her figure" and "make her look less homeless."

"What? I-I meant it in a nice way! Wait, not _nice_ , but — you look great — or, um . . . do people still say 'lovely'?" He pulled out his phone, and she knew he was opening the thesaurus app she'd installed last summer. "I'm sorry, I'm not very good at this . . ."

She laughed, snagging his phone. "Just tell me I look hot, David."

"Of course you do!" After a few seconds, where she waited with raised eyebrows, he blushed and added, "You look beautiful."

"Hot.  _Hot_ is the word you're looking for."

"Please, Gwen! That's not appropriate to say in public!" Like there was a line of toddlers just waiting to be corrupted by his language.

She leaned in and kissed him — chastely, to protect the innocence of David's imaginary toddlers. "Fine, but I better hear _all_ about how 'nice' I look later."

"You will." He pulled her into a gentle hug, careful not to mess up her hair (after she'd squawked like an angry bird when he tried to touch it). She sighed, snuggling into him; she'd forgotten how insanely warm he was, or how he somehow always smelled like the middle of the woods. Even if she'd had to turn around this second and take another six-hour train ride back to the city, it would be worth the trip just for this hug.

"All right," she finally groaned, wriggling free and picking up her bag. "Let's go so I can be ripped to shreds by Mother Bear."

"Don't worry! She'll like you." Taking the luggage from her, he twined the fingers of his free hand with hers as they maneuvered the crowded station.

She rolled her eyes. "David, the only people who like me are you, Platypus, and my sister. I don't know what's wrong with Audree — pretty sure it's guilt from being the favorite daughter — but I'm pretty sure Platypus only likes me because I feed him, and as for _you_ —"

" _Gwen!_ " His eyes darted around, and she was surprised by how jumpy he was. This was the man who could make friends with a rabid dog; what was he so nervous about?

As though he'd read her mind, he lowered his voice and said, "I'm sorry, it's just that . . . well, I'm sure there's no one I know here, but we're close to town, and —"

"Gotcha. Don't want anyone tattling to your mom about what a freak you are." He cringed and looked around again. "You're such a mama's boy, Jesus."

"I'm not! But she's my family. All of it, really."

His father had moved out when he was in high school, and while David always tried to put a positive spin on everything, Gwen got the impression that Harvey Greenwood was more interested in his new family than the one he'd left behind. As far as she could tell, aside from a few birthday cards — which David seemed to get every couple of years and kept every single one of — his dad was AWOL.

She squeezed his hand. "I'll make sure she thinks I'm perfect, then. You know how adorable and lovable I can be."

"I do!" As usual, he completely missed her sarcasm.

They emerged into the parking lot just as a blast of wind tore through it, and as Gwen pulled her jacket closed, she finally took in David's outfit. "How are you not freezing to death? Who wears shorts in winter?"

"Actually, it's still fall!" he chirped. Unsurprisingly, he dressed like a counselor year-round, down to the yellow bandanna. This time he'd traded his green shirt and tiny vest for a pink-and-white striped tank top, and his shorts were a lightish red version of his camp ones. "And I don't know, I never really get cold."

"Well, you look _very nice_." He looked, in fact, much better than nice, but damned if she wasn't going to mess with him a little bit. "Got a real 'sunburned tourist' thing going on."

"Are you all right? You're meaner than usual." He frowned. "But also happier. You didn't . . . drink anything on the train, did you?"

She bumped him with her shoulder, grinning. Okay, maybe she was a little giddy; it had been a long two-and-a-half months. "I gotta get it all out of my system now, since I'll have to be polite all week." She was going to need to repress basically all of her natural instincts, but she'd be sweet and friendly if it killed her.

"Not _all_ week! Just . . . parts of it." He unlocked the car — a ridiculously tiny silver thing she couldn't name, but David loved like a child — and loaded her bags. He even moved to open the passenger door for her, but she stopped him with a dismissive wave.

"All right, Mr. Darcy, I can open a goddamn door." (It suddenly occurred to her that maybe _she_ was the reason her life wasn't very romantic.)

Once inside the car, a quiet awkwardness settled over them, the only sound David fiddling with his keys. Now that they were actually alone together, everything she'd wanted to tell him evaporated into the chill air. "Hi," she murmured with a huff of self-conscious laughter.

"Hi." His answering smile was a mix of uneasiness and amusement, like he knew as well as she did that they were being ridiculous. "I missed you."

Gwen wanted to tell him that she'd missed him too, missed him with an intensity that kind of scared her. Even talking in some form almost every day, it hurt like homesickness. It reminded her of how she thought about the city while at Camp Campbell, but of course that was her life, her "best" years, all her friends. This was a relationship that hadn't even hit the four-month mark, and she could arm herself with all the psychology talk she possessed — _early relationships are usually marked by infatuation, they'd been friends for years, and besides this was the first person she'd ever dated who really seemed to care about her, obviously she'd imprinted on him, totally normal —_ but it still freaked her out. So instead she scoffed and said, "I'm right here. What's to miss?"

* * *

"Oh my god!" Gwen pressed her face to the car window, feeling like a kid at an aquarium. "You seriously _live_ here?"

"Yes?" David was far too conscientious a driver to look over at her, but she could hear the bemusement in his voice. "Is it that weird?"

She was too busy taking everything in to reply. "Holy shitballs, your town has a clock tower. A literal clock tower! Like we're in London or something! And are those fucking _horse-drawn carriages?_ " She turned back to him, her mouth falling open. "You never told me you had horse-drawn carriages!" she accused. "How have we known each other almost five years and that never came up?!"

"Is that . . . not normal?"

She stared at him for a moment, refusing to believe he was that sheltered. Her attention was pulled immediately back to the window by an explosion of color. "What the Christ am I looking at?"

David's eyes flicked toward the squat rotunda, and he beamed. "That's the diner where I work!" The building was Jane Austen by way of Dr. Seuss: antique lanterns and ornate architecture were all but obliterated by the flowers that burst from, surrounded, and climbed it in every direction. It looked like the greenhouse of a millionaire . . . but also a bit like an overflowing bucket. "They put me in charge of the flowers this year when they caught me sneaking fertilizer to them."

She could easily imagine him flitting around the visual cacophony; even though he was a tree-hugger at heart, she had yet to introduce him to a plant he didn't fall in love with. (She'd even bought him a Venus flytrap last summer. It was half an early birthday gift and half an experiment to see whether he'd choose to keep alive the plant or the flies it would need to eat. She wasn't entirely sure what happened, but occasionally David would give her updates on how "Chompy" was doing, so she assumed he'd sided with the plant.) "Wait, why were you sneaking fertilizer?"

"The mulch that the owners were using was _good_ , but I had some extra compost lying around —"

"Like you do, sure."

"— and I didn't want to hurt their feelings, so I went in and added it after they closed so that no one would know it was there! But, uh, they had security cameras, so I got caught."

"Are you telling me you broke into a private business in the middle of the night . . . to feed their _plants_?"

He blushed. "Well, when you put it that way —"

Gwen interrupted him with a laugh, leaning over and kissing his cheek. "You're nuts, you know that?"

"People say that a lot," he whined as they turned away from the main street onto a road lined with townhouses. It looked a lot less like it belonged in a Disney theme park, though it was still achingly cute.

She reached over and patted his thigh; she would've taken his hand, but he was insistent about having both on the wheel at all times. "Don't worry about it, it's endearing or something." And it was, so much so that if they weren't in a moving vehicle she might've flung herself at him. Instead she focused her gaze out the window, drumming her fingers on his leg. "We're not expected at your mom's straightaway, right? Like, we're gonna stop at your place to unpack and, um . . ." Damn, she'd never been good at this. She blamed YA novels, where the girls were swept off their feet before they had the chance to even practice being seductive.

But even David wasn't that oblivious. "We are now," he replied, surprisingly smooth for someone who refused to take his eyes from the road. He took the next left, leaving the townhouses behind.

"And uh, David?" Her voice cracked on his name — so much for looking cool. That brief embarrassment caused him to glance over at her for a second. "I just, you know, wanted to say that I missed you too. In case you hadn't figured that out."

The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly. "Thank you, Gwen," he said, and she had the feeling that if it was possible to hug someone telepathically, he was trying very hard to do so.

They were having a Moment; if this were a novel, he would've pulled up immediately to his apartment and they would've shared a grand, sweeping kiss. But they weren't in a novel, and the car trundled along.

"So . . . how's Chompy?"

* * *

 

His apartment building was adorable, just like the rest of the town. Unfortunately, he seemed to know all of his neighbors, every single one of whom were old enough to have nothing better to do than sit on the front lawn and meet "his pretty young friend." Both of them were thrumming with tension, but Gwen patiently explained where she was from (New York), how she knew David (they worked together), and why she was here ("visiting," a coy euphemism she was pretty sure fooled no one).

When they finally made it into his apartment, it felt like they'd escaped a zombie horde.

"So they seemed nice," she said, pulling off her jacket and barely refraining from throwing it (and the rest of her clothes) onto the nearest flat surface.

He smiled apologetically. "They mean well. They just . . . uh . . ." He trailed off as she stepped closer, stopping a hair's breadth away and looking at him with wide, innocent eyes.

She took the fucking train here, after all. He could make the first move.

Grasping the hint (subtle as it was), David closed the gap, running his tongue along her lower lip until she opened her mouth. The feeling of his tongue, his breath mingling with hers, his thumb stroking her cheekbone and tracing her ear — all of it made her dizzy. "I hate to say it, but — _ah_ —" He inhaled sharply through his teeth as she slid her hands under his shirt and walked her fingers up his sides, "we don't have a lot of time."

"Save the big romantic reunion for later. Got it." She pulled his shirt off and threw it aside, pausing to suck on the skin just above his collarbone. "Ground rules, though: don't touch the hair. If we don't have hours to fix it, it's not getting fucked up. Makeup's fine, I can redo that." And it was probably already smeared to hell.

He took her hand and pulled her further into the living room, tripping over a discarded pair of shoes and nearly sending them both toppling.

"And the dress stays on," she added, slipping her leggings and underwear to the floor. "For hair reasons."

"Right." He swallowed, gazing at her bare legs as though he hadn't seen them a thousand times before. "So we'll . . . ?"

Gwen bit her lip and glanced around the room, thinking. Finally she strode over to an easy chair, running her hands along one of its high, padded arms. Snagging a couple throw pillows from the couch (one of which had " _Campe diem_ " embroidered over a forest), she set them down on the seat and bent over the arm, resting her elbows on the stack of pillows and her chin in her hands. "Behind me?" she said, popping one foot up like the heroine in a romantic comedy. When he just stared at her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, she grinned and wiggled her ass, too amused to feel embarrassed. "Something wrong, David?"

He crossed over to her, kneeling to kiss her and cupping one hand behind her neck. Nipping at her bottom lip, he stood without pulling away from the kiss, digging his fingers into her upper arms and hauling them both to their feet (without messing up a single hair, she noted absently). "Sorry," he panted, pulling back enough to rest his forehead against hers. "Just really had to . . . do that." Running his hands up to her elbows, he looked down at her arms with a frown of concern. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"Little late to worry about that," she teased, then pecked his lips to soften the words. "I'm fine."

"Good." He gave her a relieved smile. "Um, can I . . . ?" His fingers slid under the hem of her skirt, brushing against her inner thighs and making her shiver.

The most obvious, automatic yes, and yet . . . "Not enough time," she groaned, hiking up her dress and gasping at the sudden rush of air against her damp skin. "I'll take care of it, you know, in a sec." Running her fingers down his chest, she tugged at his belt. "By the way . . ."

"Right!" David pulled back, rushing over to a small cabinet and pulling open one of the bottom drawers. When he emerged with a condom, he blushed and muttered, "Since I knew you were coming over, I . . . well."

The idea that he hid little condom stashes all around the apartment in preparation for her arrival was both cute and peculiarly sexy. "Good," she said with a laugh — that died on her lips as he removed his belt, her stomach flipping at the simple gesture. "Because I've been thinking about this for literally hours, and that's more than enough foreplay."

He watched her with surprise, his hands moving automatically to pull out his cock and sheathe it. "What do you mean?"

"It was a long trip, David. I have a lot of romance novels on my phone, I was looking forward to seeing you — and there was a bathroom on the train." (A not overwhelmingly nice bathroom, but a girl did what she had to do when she was desperate.) The understanding that lit up his eyes seemed to spread visibly, a red flush that warmed across his face and down his neck. "I did what I had to do."

"Goodness. I . . . am really glad you didn't tell me that when it was happening." The words came out in a long exhale, like she'd knocked the wind out of him.

Gwen frowned. "What? Why?"

He closed the distance between them, trailing the backs of his fingers in a light, tingling line from her cheekbone to her hip. "I was at work this morning," he explained with a sheepish smile. "Someone would've noticed if I'd disappeared for twenty minutes."

 _Shit_. A jolt of warmth shot through her lower belly, leaving her shaky and breathless. David didn't go for dirty talk as much as vaguely-PG insinuation, but it did something to her that she couldn't get out of the raunchiest issue of _Butts & Bodices_. She bent her head to the fading red mark on his chest, finishing the hickey she'd started and running her tongue over the irritated skin. "I didn't think we had twenty minutes," she murmured against him, giving her handiwork a gentle bite and smirking at the hitch in his breath.

"Yeah," he agreed weakly. "But I —" He cut himself off with a whimper as she turned around, leaning on the pillows and reaching between them to part herself, "thi-ink I'll manage."

It took enormous willpower not to grab fistfuls of her hair and yank on them as hard as she could at the feeling of him slowly, torturously pushing into her. She settled instead for lacing her fingers together like she was praying, resting her forehead on them with a moan. It wasn't like they hadn't done _anything_ while apart; they had Skype, and she had her handy little black and pink vibrators. But, no offense to the magic of modern technology, there was nothing that could compare to David's fingers stroking her hips and thighs, his cock dragging along her oversensitive walls, his lips painting a burning line of kisses as far down her spine as he could reach, his woodsy smell so close and overwhelming.

Unlinking her hands, she braced herself with one arm and lifted her hips, sliding her right hand down to touch herself. Her clit was slightly raw from the attention it had received on the train ride, but as her fingers began moving, the discomfort was drowned in a sharp spike of pleasure. It took very little urging to bring her to the edge, and when he shifted his hips slightly, he pressed hard against the sensitive ridged area that marked her g-spot. "Right there, right there oh god please do that again," she babbled, throwing her head forward and squeezing her eyes shut as he sped up, hitting it again and again. "Jesus _fuck,_ David!" Biting down hard on her hand to keep quiet, she shuddered around him, feeling the release snap through her body like a shockwave that left prickles and goosebumps in its wake.

He came a second later, resting his cheek on her shoulder before pulling out of her. "I'm gonna get . . . rid of this," he said, his breathing still harsh and uneven. He pecked her on the temple and walked off.

Gwen righted herself, her arms and legs trembling. "We better have time for me to clean up," she said, listening to the sink running in the next room. She ran the heel of her hand across her mouth and winced at the resulting smear of lipstick and foundation. "I don't even want to know what I look like right now."

He returned from the kitchen, looping his arms around her shoulders and kissing her neck. "Pretty. But my mom probably wouldn't think so."

"What, is the 'just been fucked' look not in this season?" She giggled, turning to see his face, and rubbed her thumb along a waxy maroon splotch on his lower lip. "She'll probably also be weirded out if we show up wearing the same color lipstick. Very tacky thing for couples to do."

"Hmm?" Still a little dazed by the afterglow, his tongue flicked out to taste his bottom lip before he scrubbed his face with the back of one hand, looking discouraged when that only spread it around.

"Don't worry, I've got stuff. Where's the bathroom?"

David snapped back to himself, smacking the side of his head. "I can't believe I forgot to show you around! This way."

"It's fine. You were distracted," she said, smirking as the back of his neck flushed pink. Inside the tiny room, she upended her makeup bag and got to work.

He was entranced by all the little tubes and compacts, picking each up and inspecting it closely. "What's this?" he asked, popping open a blush and nearly exploding powder all over his face.

"All right," she scolded, snatching the makeup and shoving it all back in her bag before he could make a mess. "I'll do a goddamn tutorial if you're that curious." He jumped up onto the counter, his head cocked to the side like a curious puppy.

As he watched her work, listening patiently to descriptions that tended to consist of "And _this_ fucking foundation is sixty dollars, but it keeps me from getting nasty zits. Oh, and look at this piece of shit lipstick; I've had it for three years, which you're not supposed to do because of hygiene and stuff, but the company doesn't make this color anymore and I don't feel like trying a million on to find a new one," he said, "You don't wear any of this at camp."

"Uh, yeah? Are you not seeing what a pain in the ass this is? I usually don't bother with anything — foundation and mascara for work, but that's because bosses expect it." Suddenly a little defensive, she turned away from the mirror. "I mean . . . do you wish I wore this stuff more often?"

He shook his head, hopping off the counter. "I like it, but I always like the way you look." She rolled her eyes, pretending to gag, and he pouted. "What? I thought that was sweet."

"It _was_. Pretty sure I got a cavity."

Laughing, he leaned in, then stopped a hair's width away from her lips. "The only thing is . . . it's kinda messy," he explained with an apologetic shrug, pulling away and kissing her shoulder instead.

"That's the point." She winked at him. "Your mom will know that too. And if my makeup is flawless" — she waved her hand under her face like a model — "she'll know I was behaving myself. It's brilliant."

"You always are!"

They returned to the living room to get dressed. "Check the shirt before you put it on," she warned. "Pretty sure I got my face on it."

She had; David took the unfortunate victim of the Great Lipstick Massacre into his bedroom. Gwen watched him, biting back a laugh as he folded the tank top before putting it in the dirty clothes hamper.

"What?"

She waved it away, focusing on finding her shoes. "Nothing. I'm just really glad I'm here."

* * *

"Hoooookay," Gwen breathed as David pulled to a stop outside a bright yellow townhouse with blue shutters and trim. She yanked down the sun visor and peered in the mirror, dabbing at her lipstick and wondering why she'd picked such a dark color. Deciding there was nothing more she could do about her face, she settled back and plucked at her seatbelt with shaking hands. "Guess we can't stall any longer."

He gave her a sympathetic smile. "Gwen, don't worry. This will be fine."

"You think _everything_ will be fine," she muttered, straightening her skirt and wishing she'd worn something longer.

"And am I ever wrong?"

For a second she was _sure_ he'd discovered how sarcasm worked, but his face was too innocent. "Yes. Almost exclusively."

"I don't remember that," he replied, hurrying to get her door. She waited patiently; the longer she sat in the car, the longer she was able to delay the inevitable.

Was it too late to call this off?

"All righty!" He took her arm, making her feel a little like an old lady being helped across the street. "I'm just so proud of you," he added, squeezing her hand.

"Pfft, like I deserve a Purple Heart for this," she grumbled, before remembering that she was supposed to be sweet. "I mean, thanks . . . dear? Nope, never saying that again."

He chuckled, ringing the doorbell. "What about 'doll'?"

"For me or for you? Doesn't matter — absolutely not." Before he could answer, the door flew open.

"Hi, sweetheart!" Gwen was immediately pulled into a hug, engulfed by the smells of lemon and vanilla. "I've been so excited to meet you! I haven't been able to sit still all week!"

Gwen clumsily hooked one arm around the tiny woman's shoulders, trying not to inhale the cloud of honey-colored hair in her face. "Um, hello . . ." She knew she was well past the age of calling a parent by their last name, and besides, would a divorcee still go by "Mrs. Greenwood"?

David hadn't prepped her for this very well.

"Cynthia, dear." She pulled back, holding Gwen by the shoulders and beaming up at her. Unlike her son, she had a big dimple in her right cheek and a spray of freckles across her snub nose, but otherwise the smile was almost identical. "It's so lovely to see you." She was even skinnier than David, but instead of being stretched out like a beanpole, she only came up to his chest, and all of his harsh angles were smoothed out into swanlike curves and china-doll delicacy. Everything about her was soft, from her wispy blonde hair to her oversized sweater and jeans. She was young — David had mentioned once that there was a big age difference between his parents — but there were lines around her eyes and mouth that didn't quite look like they belonged there.

"Y-you too." Great. Now what was she supposed to say?

Luckily David stepped in, gently extricating Gwen from his mother's clutches. "Hi, mom! Happy Friday."

Cynthia rolled her eyes, stepping back so they could come in. "Oh, please! I see _you_ all the time," she teased, giving him a gentle swat on the shoulder. "Let me pay attention to the guest of honor." She took Gwen by the wrist and pulled her into the living room. "Gwen, I hope my boy hasn't been giving you too much trouble," she said, sitting her down on the poofy blue loveseat. "Don't let the puppy eyes fool you — he can be a real brat when he wants to be."

"Mom!"

She honestly couldn't tell when Cynthia was joking; she seemed to emanate sarcasm, albeit a sweeter-tempered, less caustic sarcasm than Gwen was used to. But the mortified look on David's face was pretty cute. "He's okay, I guess," she said, giving his mom a small smile. "Usually."

" _Gwen!_ "

"Oh, she's just trying to win me over," Cynthia said, disappearing into the kitchen. "And I've said for years that I'd embarrass you to hell and back when you got yourself a girlfriend, so you have nobody to blame but yourself." Popping her head into the doorway, she added, "Or boyfriend. I don't discriminate when it comes to humiliating my baby."

David groaned, his head dropping into his hands. "This was a terrible idea," he muttered.

She snorted, draping his arm over her shoulders and forcing him to sit up. "Come on. You totally saw this coming." He continued to mope, letting his head droop against hers, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. The drama queen. "For what it's worth, I think she's awesome."

"I know." He tightened his grip, giving her a quick kiss on the temple. "But we're leaving if she brings out baby pictures."

"That's a lie and you know it." Her eyes landed on the framed photographs lined up along the mantle. "Speaking of . . ." Wriggling away from David, she walked over and inspected them. Most were of David: as a toddler, dragging a tree branch along the ground; in his early teens, somehow even more gangly and awkward than the present. But on the very end was a wedding photo, his mother looking like a literal Disney princess, and the man next to her . . . "Is this your dad?"

"God, weren't we young? I can't throw that picture away, or there won't be any proof I used to be pretty." Cynthia bustled back into the room balancing three mugs of steaming water. She set them down on the table and joined Gwen by the fireplace. "Davey looks just like him, doesn't he? You have no idea how happy I was that he got Harvey's hair and eyes — and that he never tried to grow that awful mustache. Don't let the decade fool you: it was ugly in the eighties, too. Now, I didn't know what kind of tea you wanted, but we have . . ."

His mother carried the conversation like a talk show host, able to read when Gwen was getting overwhelmed with questions and switching immediately into anecdotes about David — and successfully jumping off that topic when he looked like he was going to sink into the floor. It felt a bit like running a race, but that was better than the interrogation she'd expected.

"You're writing a book?" she repeated, managing to say it without any of the disdain or amusement Gwen had become accustomed to hearing. "That's wonderful! The world needs more artistic people. You know, the saddest thing is seeing so many incredible, creative children be convinced they're not intelligent because they're not able to . . . oh, I don't know, solve quadratic equations or make a stable batch of nitroglycerin. They're smarter than they think they are, but they won't believe it." Cynthia took a long sip of tea, watching David with raised eyebrows; when he flushed and looked down at his drink, she had the sense they were skirting the edge of a very old argument.

As the conversation turned to books, she quietly excused herself — not because she actually had to go to the bathroom, but just to get a break from being a functional human being for a few minutes. As she slipped into the foyer, taking a deep breath for the first time since she'd entered the house, she leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes.

She could still hear the voices in the other room, and was surprised when the topic changed. "How're you holding up, kiddo? Don't think you've been this quiet since you learned how to talk. Are you okay?"

"Of course, everything's fine!" There was a long silence, then a heavy sigh. "It's just . . . weird. She's never seen me outside of camp, and that's very different."

"You mean none of the campers give you as much hell as your mom?" Gwen could hear the smile in Cynthia's voice.

David laughed quietly. "No, they do. They just don't have as much to work with." She didn't realize she was holding her breath until her head started swimming. Exhaling as softly as she could, she flattened herself even more against the wall. "I don't — want her to see me differently. And she's hard to read sometimes."

"You seriously think a couple of dumb baby stories are going to make her change her mind about you?" David made a quiet noncommittal noise, and his mother continued, "Davey, she took a train six hours just to see you. Have you ever _been_ on a train? Trust me, that means you're in." There was the squeaking of springs and the clattering of dishes. "Come on, help me clean up."

Gwen slipped into the empty living room, returning to the mantle to examine the pictures again. He really _did_ look exactly like his father. She caught a glimpse of what had to be a school picture, David looking all of ten years old with a missing upper tooth and a bowtie around his scrawny neck.

"There you are!" She turned to David, who was grinning like nothing had happened. "Dinner will be ready in about an hour, and I was told we have to leave so I don't 'backseat cook,'" he said, looking both abashed and a little proud.

She took his outstretched hand, following him outside. "Where are we going?" she asked, shivering and wishing she'd brought a heavier coat.

Despite only wearing a tank top and shorts, he had warmth to spare, hugging her close as they walked. "I don't really know? I thought we'd see what happens. It'll be an adventure!"

Rolling her eyes, Gwen hooked an arm around his waist and leaned against his chest. She wondered if she should bring up what she'd overheard or not. His mom was right; he was being really, really stupid. But it was a familiar kind of stupid, one that cut dangerously close to her own thoughts and feelings.

If he'd wanted to tell her, he would've. And he really _did_ seem over it.

It was better just to forget it and move on.

"Fine by me," she said, smiling up at him. "Lead the way, Magellan."

* * *

"Now you thought _this_ was anything, wait until you try Davey's cooking. I only get to see him on Sundays, but the benefit of having adult children is that you can force them to make dinner for you." She winked, walking them to the door. "I expect I won't see you 'til then — you kids must have a lot of catching up to do — but you can always stop by if you're in the area."

Gwen nodded, starting to feel antsy. This had been a solid three hours of quality time with a virtual stranger; she needed to spend the rest of the night being seriously antisocial to balance that out. (Well, except for David. He didn't count.)

"And of course I'll see you two at church, right?"

What? She turned to David, who shot her a look of panic. "Um . . ."

"Actually, Gwen's not —"

"Of course we'll be there," she interrupted, squeezing his arm through his coat. The last thing she needed was for his mother to think she was a godless heathen the first time they met. "Sounds wonderful."

She couldn't tell if his mother had noticed the surprise on David's face, but she didn't mention it. "You two take care!" she chirped with another vanilla-scented hug, blowing a kiss to David and watching them from the front door. "Drive safe!"

Once they were safely out of earshot, David turned to her, his eyes wide and his lips pressed into a thin line. "I am _so_ sorry. I completely forgot —"

She rolled her eyes. "Relax, it's not like I'll burst into flames or anything. Besides, I'll repay you for the awkwardness when you meet my parents."

"Oh, are they religious?"

"God, no. They're just awful." She climbed into the car, slightly shaky from nerves but more or less pleased with how things had gone. "Don't worry, David. Your mom's actually pretty cool," she said, then smirked. "Apparently it isn't genetic."

"Hey." He frowned, pouting. "I think I've suffered enough."

Gwen laughed and kissed his cheek. "Shut up, she's great." He pulled out of the driveway and she caught sight of the forest-green mailbox sitting outside. "'Pine'?" she read.

"Oh, she went back to her maiden name when Dad left." He glanced over when she didn't respond, his brows furrowing in confusion. "What?"

"Your parents were Harvey Greenwood and Cynthia Pine." She shook her head. "I guess there was really no other way you could've turned out, huh?"

* * *

"Oh thank God, I can take these off." She leaned against the door, sighing, and fiddled with her shoes. "Didn't get to mention it before, but this place is cute as hell."

"Gwen." The seriousness in his voice made her freeze, one boot dangling from her foot and the other in her hand. "Since we're home now . . . can I touch your hair?"

She barked out a surprised laugh, covering her mouth at the loudness of it. "Yeah, go crazy," she finally said, fighting the urge to giggle as he stepped close, reaching out toward it reverentially and twining a few curls around his fingers.

The look on his face was like he'd just discovered Santa was real. "It's so crunchy!"

"Come on, you use hairspray! This shouldn't be a surprise."

"I know," he replied, rolling a clump between his index finger and thumb and watching the strands separate, "but it's still cool." He wiggled his fingers and beamed at the dry raspings of the stiff hair. "It sounds like leaves!"

"All right, Jesus." She pulled away from him, rolling her eyes, and then caught sight of a familiar blue pot. "Hey, is that Chompy?" Wandering into the kitchen, she peered down at the little plant on the windowsill. "Aww, he's so cute!"

David laughed, opening up a cupboard and rifling through it. "That reminds me," he said, "I should feed him." Emerging with cylindrical container, a spoon, a clear plastic dropper, and a small dish, he knelt down in front of the plant, shaking something out into the dish and squeezing a few drops of water onto it.

She leaned over his shoulder, peering down at the bowl. It looked like tiny shreds of dead leaves or something. "What's that?"

"Freeze-dried bloodworms!" He stirred the mush, beaming at Chompy. "I tried buying live bugs, but it made me too sad. This is a little trickier, but at least they're already dead." Taking several steps back, she watched in disgusted horror as he carefully spooned a bit of rehydrated bug mush into the mouth of the trap. "You have to sort of wiggle it around to make it think the bug's alive, and stimulate its lobes so it will digest all the way," he explained, apparently unaware that this was the creepiest thing ever. "Right, Chompy?"

Gwen leaned back against the kitchen table, watching her boyfriend massage a houseplant, and shook her head. Taking a platypus for walks suddenly seemed a lot less weird. "I can't believe I still want to have sex with you right now."

He jumped, nearly spilling the rest of the bug mush. "R-really?"

"Okay, not until you get rid of that shit," she added quickly, holding up her hands. As he carefully finished feeding Chompy and climbed to his feet, biting his lip and avoiding her eyes, she couldn't help but wonder if she was coming on too strong. "I mean, not if you don't want to. I just . . . think I owe you a big romantic reunion, don't I? But like, if you'd rather just go to bed —"

While she was babbling like a moron, David had moved over to the counter, setting the dirty dishes in the sink and tapping his fingers on the lid of the plant food. He was watching her with an expression she couldn't read — probably because it wasn't either "Everything is awesome!" or "Everything's fine!" (He used the word "fine" like most people used the word "ca-fucking-tastrophe.") When she trailed off, plucking at the hair she was finally allowed to touch and twining strands around her finger, he smiled shyly and said, "I want you to know that if I wasn't holding freeze-dried bloodworms, I'd be very happy to kiss you right now. So . . . maybe try not to worry so much."

That was like asking her not to breathe, but she appreciated the sentiment. And, being Gwen, she felt almost compulsively desperate to ruin it. "Come on," she snorted, "not with all this shit on my face. You don't want another repeat of this afternoon."

He swallowed visibly, the tips of his ears glowing pink. "I . . . actually do," he mumbled, looking away from her.

God, he was cute. "I'm gonna take a shower. Besides, you have to get rid of all traces that there were dead bugs in your kitchen, or I'm not gonna be able to eat in it. Give me five minutes." She disappeared with a wave, humming tunelessly down the hall to the bathroom.

* * *

For a few seconds David just looked out the window, smiling so wide he could feel it. He didn't quite know how he'd ended up where he was, with a strange, sullen woman taking a shower in his apartment, but it seemed like life had dropped something special in his lap.

Well, it had. Gwen _was_ special. Self-conscious, moody, easily embarrassed, prone to violence — but special.

And, amazingly, here. To be with him.

He shook his head and began washing dishes; he was _mostly_ sure she'd been kidding about eating in the kitchen, but it wasn't like he enjoyed cleaning dried bloodworms out of his bowls, either. And he enjoyed cleaning. It took him out of his head, the same way spending time in nature did, and sometimes he needed a break from his thoughts. It was nice to let things settle down in there and distract himself from things.

Things like the presence of a girlfriend who just six minutes and twenty-seven seconds ago had told him to wait for her . . .

As though he'd summoned it, his phone vibrated. Gwen, just two words:

_u coming?_

He was halfway down the hall before he remembered to go back and turn off the kitchen faucet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes sneaking in Rooster Teeth references leads to awkward and clunky phrasing. Oh well. 
> 
> David's town was stolen from the adorable Niagara-on-the-lake, which is as close as you can get to living in a storybook. I'm pretty squirrelly as far as actually saying that's where he lives, because things might get messy with geography beyond what my mind can handle ("what my mind can handle" being as follows: David is Canadian, Gwen lives in NYC, and Lake Lilac is somewhere between those two). So don't think too hard about the math when it comes to distances, train schedules, and driving times, but do Google this precious town and imagine David as a child there; it'll add a few years to your life.
> 
> Also, David and Gwen's outfits were totally ripped off of R. A. Enbows' gorgeous art: http://raenbowsofficial.tumblr.com/post/150707143167/what-do-you-think-gwen-and-davids-casual-clothes The amount I stared at this for inspiration is actually a little embarrassing. Such a beautiful couple of dorks.


	4. (Optional) The Big Romantic Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's harder being apart than they'd expected, but it makes the times they can see each other that much more special. Gwen visits David in the beautiful land to the north. (Part 2 of 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh.
> 
> No, seriously, ugh.
> 
> This is completely unedited -- not because I lack wonderful and intelligent people to read it, but because after almost a month of trying to write this garbage chapter,* I can't fucking look at it anymore. And if one of my betas said, "This is great, but maybe you should rewrite ____" I'd probably jump off a cliff. Maybe someday I'll have the strength to return to this and make it less of an incoherent mess, but at the moment I just need it to be done and away from me. Of course, because it's unedited, that means that suggestions and critiques are especially welcomed. (Encouragement and adulation are always welcome as well, and I will accept the odd blood sacrifice as long as it's not too messy.)
> 
> WARNING: This is just straight-up porn. It's optional because, save for the very last scene and like a little bit in the middle, there is nothing of plot or character relevance to this bad boy. If you're not into that kinda thing, I totally understand, and Part 3 will hopefully be out very very soon!
> 
> *Common sense: Hey, you probably shouldn't constantly tell people how much you think your chapter is shitty if you actually want them to read it! Me: It's called the soft bias of lowered expectations (and terrible self-esteem), and it has served me well through the ages.

Gwen had scrubbed off her makeup so fast she might've taken some skin with it, thrown herself into the shower before it had heated up, and soaped herself up so quickly that she'd nearly slipped and knocked out her teeth.

It turned out she could've taken her time, because it was almost ten minutes before there was a gentle knock on the door. "Hi?" David asked. She couldn't see through the pine-tree-covered shower curtain, but she could hear that the door had opened and not closed; it was easy to imagine him hovering in the doorway, not sure what to do.

"Took you long enough," she called, massaging shampoo into her hair and trying to tease apart the softening curls.

"I . . . uh, thought you were coming back out."

See, this was why heroes in novels were always so creepily forward with their intentions; people like Gwen just weren't very good at this. "Sorry, still wrestling my hair."

". . . Should I go then?"

Jesus, did he need a handwritten invitation? "Orrrr you could come in and hang out."

"Oh! Y-yeah, okay." There was a quiet scuffling and a _click_ as the door closed. A minute later the shower curtain clattered back on its rod, releasing a cloud of steam into the tiny bathroom. She turned, oddly self-conscious even though he'd obviously seen her before (and as far as attractiveness went, it was pretty hard to mess up the "wet, naked woman" look). His eyes weren't on hers — their focus was considerably lower — so she felt free to stare at him shamelessly.

When it came to romantic heroes, most of her guidelines tended to focus on men who were "rugged" and "dazzling," but those descriptors didn't fit David. He was too _skinny_ , for one thing: his collarbones and shoulder blades stuck out in sharp ridges, and she could feel his ribs with just the slightest pressure along his sides. Everything about him was small — except for his eyes and ears, which were almost comically large — and despite his height, Gwen was almost afraid to touch him, because it seemed like someone that thin would shatter. Appearances were deceiving, because his nails were sharp and his fingers surprisingly strong, but even knowing that he could pick her up like she weighed less than Platypus didn't lessen the sense that she was looking at someone terribly, beautifully fragile. And though he was pale, like any self-respecting vampire or British heartthrob, his skin was tinged with pink instead of bluely translucent, prone to burning, blushing, and bruising.

Above all it was how _open_ he seemed; with virtually no fat, muscle, or hair to insulate him from the outside world, and with his unguarded eyes and guileless grin, David radiated a bizarre, easily-scratched purity. Somehow, after years of fantasizing about men described as prowling jungle cats and cold-eyed wolves, the most attractive man she'd ever been with was more like a deer than any predator.

He was pretty. Delicate, lanky, and impossibly pretty.

Their eyes flicked up at the same time. He took a slightly shaky breath, running a hand through his hair with an embarrassed smile, and whatever cute, sexy come-on she'd been planning evaporated. "Wow," he began. "You look —"

Without thinking she lunged forward, lacing her fingers in the close-cropped hair at the base of his head. The movement nearly sent her toppling out of the slick bathtub, but David caught her around the waist and kept them both upright, half-in and half-out of the spray of the shower. "Sorry," she breathed, looking down at the drenched tile and cringing. In response he just kissed her, quick and firm, and stepped in. The second the curtain had been pulled shut, he drew her into a hug and they stood like that for a few minutes. Her cheek was pressed against his shoulder and his nose buried in her hair, the warm water streaming around and between them, his clean, earthy smell stronger now that his bare skin was against hers. "Thanks," she finally murmured, not entirely sure for what. For letting her use his shower? For letting her visit at all?

"No problem," he replied, tilting his head to meet her lips again, one hand cupping the back of her head and the other curved along the side of her hip. "Thank you for being here."

It was like every minute of the last two months had built up like a layer of dirt on her skin. Every frustration, every innocent joke that suddenly turned thick with unintentional innuendo, every time they felt the miles between them like a physical weight — they chased each other down her body with every droplet, leaving her raw and exposed and unbearably sensitive. When he shifted his weight, repositioning his hand a bit higher on her waist and tightening his grip, she made a small, pathetic "ohh" that was more air than sound. Gwen pulled back to apologize, but he tightened his grip on her hair, leaning forward to chase her mouth with a quiet whine, and she decided that she wasn't all that invested in talking anyway. Not when his nails were gently scraping her skin and his tongue was hotter than blood against hers and the sounds their mouths made together were so much more obscene through the water that cascaded over their noses and lips.

He swiped his thumb over the soft spot behind her ear and her knees buckled. The fingers on her hip disappeared, David's arm curving around her back and pulling her tight against him before she was fully aware of losing her balance. With his other hand he clutched hard at her upper arm, moving it to the wall above her head once it was clear she wasn't going to crash to the floor. Tilted back like this, he was almost a full head taller than her. "Sorry," she said once she'd caught her breath. "I . . . my legs stopped working."

His eyebrows rose, his head cocking to the side with a mixture of concern and amusement. Then he nodded, his jaw set with determination. "Okay, then. Up!" Placing his hands just under her ribcage, he lifted her off her feet, and out of panicked instinct she wrapped her legs around his waist, clinging to his shoulders with a yelp of surprise. Her back hit the cool wet tile of the wall, and before she'd caught her breath he was kissing her again — and it was a good thing the responsibility of standing had been taken from her, because even if he was skinny as a beanpole and the biggest klutz she'd ever met, she was the one who was trembling and making these soft mewling noises that would've been embarrassing if they didn't make David's fingers dig into her skin hard enough to hurt.

Jesus, it'd been too long.

They separated just enough for air, noses pressed together and foreheads touching. "Hey," she panted, and he hummed against the side of her mouth in response, lips moving down her jaw, "you have a" — _shiver, struggle to breathe_ — "stash around here somewhere?"

David abandoned his journey toward her ear, meeting her gaze with a blank, confused look. She watched his eyes, dark and hazy with arousal, clear as her words registered. "Right! Um, yes . . ." He eased up his hold on her waist, gingerly extricating himself from her hold and setting her on her feet again —

— where they both immediately skidded on the slick surface; she landed hard on her hip but caught herself before breaking her nose against the side of the tub, and he staggered into the faucet with a pained hiss as the metal dug into his side.

They stared at each other in horror for a few seconds. Then his lips twitched in a barely-restrained grin, and Gwen dropped her cheek against the cool lip of the bathtub with a cackle that brought tears to her eyes.

"Oh my god," she gasped, letting him take her hands and ( _carefully_ ) pull her upright, "that was fucking terrifying."

"I-I'm sorry," he said with a helpless giggle. "Are you okay?" As he spoke he tried desperately to keep a straight face, but barely got the question out before they burst out laughing.

"We're not — not doing that again." She wiped her eyes, not sure what was water from the shower and what were tears. "I'm pretty sure going to the hospital with a broken dick would be the most embarrassing thing that's happened in the history of sex."

He looked thoughtful. "Actually, I think I heard about someone from my school who was allergic to latex and they got . . . stuck together. That might be worse."

" _What?_ "

"Yeah, it was like an allergic reaction, and apparently she, y'know, swelled . . ." He trailed off, trying to express this with his hands, and after a moment of baffled silence they both cracked up again.

"That did _not_ happen!"

"It did!" he insisted, pressing a fist to his mouth to stifle his laughter. "It was very scandalous."

She sighed, her hilarity subsiding. "Well, so much for _that_ ," she said, absently trailing the fingers of her left hand down his chest. His breath hitched as she ghosted over a nipple, and she smiled. "But I do have another idea."

"Really?" Gwen leaned forward and lapped at the water running down his jaw, smirking as he shuddered and tilted his head back. "It's not . . . dangerous, is it?"

"No, we'll be fine," she said, kissing her way up to his ear. _Hopefully_. "You can stand without getting us both killed, right?"

"Um —" David cut himself off with a quiet groan as she nipped at his earlobe. "Probably?"

She supposed that was good enough. "How long have we known each other?" she asked, turning her attention to the wet skin of his neck.

For a second he seemed at a loss for words. "F-four years," he finally said.

"Long time." Hooking her arms around his neck, she rested her forehead against his. "In four years, did you ever . . . _think_ . . . about me?"

"Of course! All the time." His mouth was close enough for her to feel the heat of his lips as they moved, so she felt more than saw his brilliant smile.

Leaning forward like this put her directly under the spray, and strands of limp hair curled down her forehead and stuck to her cheeks. She leaned back and pushed it out of her face with one hand, rolling her eyes at her ridiculous hair (and her ridiculous boyfriend). "Not like that."

"I — _Oh_." His eyebrows shot up in understanding, and he immediately looked away, his already-pink skin flushing darker. "Um . . . yes?" he replied, apologetic. "Sometimes."

She bent to kiss his chest, slowly lowering herself to her knees without lifting her mouth from his skin. She put one hand on his hip, massaging with her thumb the dip where his hipbones jutted out, and closed the fingers of her other around his cock. Lining it up so it was nearly touching her lips, she looked up at him and settled back on her feet. The water ran down his chest, the rivulets tracing delicate patterns. "Did you ever think of me like this?" she asked. Her breath skated over his sensitive skin; if she licked her lips, her tongue would brush against him.

David let out a strained whimper and nodded, his eyes screwing shut and his hands curling into fists.

"Good," she murmured, arousal dropping her voice into a low, throaty purr that sounded way too sexy to belong to her. "Me too." She gave him a second to absorb that — his eyes snapping open and the look on his face like a startled animal — then ran her tongue along the underside of his head, dipping beneath the foreskin before delivering a gentle, open-mouthed kiss to the tip.

"Ah —" His hips twitched as she took more of him into her mouth, and his right hand alighted on her head, caressing her hair. "Goodness . . . th-that's —" She swirled her tongue around him, humming, and he moaned brokenly. "That's perfect," he finally gasped, clutching at the shower curtain like it was the only thing holding him up.

Her stomach flipped, her body flooding with warmth. Suddenly nothing seemed more important than getting him to make more noises like that. She kept her pace steady but torturously slow, pressing the flat of her tongue against the underside of his head and sliding it languidly back and forth. At the same time, she dug the fingernails of her right hand into David's hip and pulled down, searing stark red marks along his skin.

"Fu — !" He stopped himself at the last minute, biting down so hard on his lip she was worried he'd draw blood. He tightened his grip involuntarily, forcing her down far enough to make her gag. "Sorry!" he breathed, his voice cracking. Smoothing her hair with trembling fingers, he drew a ragged breath and said, "I didn't — _ngh_ — mean to — it's j-just . . . I . . ." He left his right hand dangling at his side, clearly not trusting himself to return it to her head.

Taking pity, she sped up, circling the inside his foreskin with her tongue. A light _thud_ made her pause before she realized that David had braced his forearm on the shower wall, resting his forehead against it and closing his eyes.

"Oh god, oh god, ohh — ohhh _god_ . . ." Suddenly his voice changed, tinged with alarm: "Gwen, I'm — y-you should ssstop —"

Instead of replying, she flicked her tongue over his slit, licking up the precome that had gathered there. When he realized she wasn't going to let up, he let out a low, throaty groan and a shudder ran down his body. He came with a strangled, incoherent noise, throbbing against her tongue and spilling down her throat. When he'd finished, she pulled back, lapping at his overstimulated head one more time and making him shiver.

Wiping her mouth, Gwen sat back. "And nobody broke anything," she said with a triumphant grin.

David replied with an exhausted moan, still leaning against his arm. He released the curtain and held out that hand to her, stroking her cheek as his breathing got back under control.

She kissed the scratches on his leg as she stood, wincing at how raw they looked. Pushing him back a bit so that she could share the water (which was still warm, proving that landlords in Canada were infinitely better than those in America), she looped her arms around his skinny waist and nuzzled against his neck. "Not bad?"

He returned the hug, still a little shaky. "Holy shit," he hissed with a weak chuckle, leaning his head against hers.

"You're just saying that because you know I like hearing you swear," she whined, half-kidding.

She could feel his smile against her cheek. "Seemed like the least I could do."

* * *

"Gwen?" David was kneeling behind her on his bed, drying her hair. (He'd been convinced it would be fun, and he actually seemed to be enjoying wrestling her damp head into submission.)

"Mmm?"

"Why did you do that? In the shower?"

She shrugged, feeling her face grow warm. Had it been that weird? Considering the things she'd read or fantasized about — or hell, some of the things she'd already done — it had seemed pretty vanilla. "I didn't want us to die, for one thing. And . . . I mean, I wanted to?"

He set the towel aside and fluffed out her mostly-dry hair. "So it wasn't — you didn't feel like you _had_ to, right? For me?"

 _That_ was what he was worried about? She turned around, draping her legs over his so they were sitting facing each other. Taking his hands and meeting his eyes, she said, "David, I really wanted to. I've been thinking of doing that since — well, a long time." An embarrassingly long time; even when she hadn't considered him a serious romantic prospect, she'd still been aware that he was the only man her age she'd see all summer. Sometimes her books got boring without a face to put to them . . . and sometimes David's had been the one that jumped most readily to mind. "That was practically as much for me as it was for you. I'm selfish, remember?"

A smile crossed his face, one that was too sly and knowing to be trusted, and Gwen had the sinking suspicion she'd just been lured into a trap. "Right. So . . ." He let out a huff of air, shaking his head as though clearing it. "Do you think maybe I could . . . too?"

 _Oh_. His face fell as he realized he'd upset her. "It's not your fault," she assured him quickly. "It's just that I . . . don't let people do that. I mean, guys have told me —" She trailed off, deciding he didn't need to know about her sexual misadventures.

His brow furrowed, and he cocked his head to the side. "What?"

. . . Or maybe he did.

Cringing, she pulled her knees to her chest, shifting back on the bed to put some distance between them and wishing they'd gotten dressed after the shower so she'd feel less vulnerable. "I just . . . I've heard that it's not something guys like to do, and it's like a chore, and that we don't — you know, it's not great." This was mortifying, and part of her resented David for making her explain this. He was a guy, albeit an extremely sheltered one. Wasn't he supposed to know this already? Wasn't it practically universal knowledge? Wasn't that why it showed up in women's porn all the time — because the only thing less realistic than a time-traveling Viking with perfect hygiene was a guy who actually _wanted_ to go down?

His mouth twisted into a thoughtful pout, but it disappeared almost as soon as she saw it. "Okay," he said easily, a minor slump in his shoulders the only sign that everything wasn't fine. He kissed her cheek and settled back against the pillows next to her, wrapping a lock of her hair around his finger.

She felt like she'd just dodged a bullet, but also like she'd just lost an argument. Her knee-jerk reaction was to curl up into his side and ignore the feeling, but she could tell David was bothered by something, and she wouldn't be able to relax knowing something was eating at him. Especially since she was having trouble believing what she suspected the problem was. "Are you seriously _disappointed?_ " she asked, looping her arm through his and snuggling against his side.

He shrugged, stretching his legs out. "Well, yeah, a bit. But I don't want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable." He tapped at Gwen's legs, which were still drawn up in a fetal position, and she unfurled herself to press more closely against him. Trailing his fingers down her arm, he added, "But I was glad to hear about how you wanted to . . . you know, because that — was how I felt too. About you, I mean."

"Wait, really?" It sure didn't sound like anything she'd hear from one of her former partners, but that was true about most things David said.

"Of course." He rested his hand on her bare thigh, so solid and warm against her goosebumped skin. "I like you. I want to make you happy. I — I want everything about you, Gwen."

 _Goddamn it._ She let her head fall onto his shoulder with a defeated sigh. "Fine," she muttered, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. "You win."

"Really?" The excitement in his voice was squashed immediately, replaced with concern. "Are you sure? I don't want to —"

"How am I supposed to say no to that?" she teased, lifting her head and rolling her eyes dramatically. "So okay. I'll suffer the terrible hardship of letting my boyfriend eat me out."

The way he gulped and looked away was pretty adorable. "Thank you." He tilted her chin up to meet his lips. His hand slid down her jaw and into her hair, making her sigh, and he leaned her back against the headboard, shifting until he was straddling her. "Is this okay?" he asked, supporting himself above her with one arm.

Actually, it was terrifying, but that was because of her own hang-ups. And Gwen had to admit that being pinned under him, no matter how nonthreatening his weight and presence were, felt overwhelming in the best way. She leaned forward with a hum of assent, sucking on the skin under his jaw and grazing it with her teeth.

He shivered, then pushed her away. "Stop that," he chided, bending down to kiss her again and pressing one hand flat against her chest to keep her back. She tensed, waiting for him to move down her body, but he didn't seem to be in any hurry, working his mouth against hers until she was lightheaded and dizzy. When he ran his tongue along the curve of her throat she melted, leaning against the headboard and arching her back to give him more to work with. With a shaky exhale, she closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind — a task that was getting easier by the second.

David's mouth moved like the hands of a clock: slowly enough that she almost didn't register its progress, but steady as a heartbeat. So it was almost a surprise to feel the wet heat of his mouth engulfing one of her nipples, his hand sliding down to roll the other one between thumb and index finger. Both were hard and aching from arousal, and the sudden stimulation sent a rush of pleasure spiking through her that was almost frightening in its intensity. " _Fuck,_ David!" she gasped, her head falling back against the headboard as a burst of relief rippled from her belly and left her trembling. He stilled and pulled back, his eyes wide with alarm, and she gave him as reassuring a smile as possible while trying to get her breath under control. "Wow," she finally breathed, lifting her head to meet his gaze. "I . . . didn't know I could do that."

"Did — d-did you just —"

Gwen buried her face in her hands, her cheeks burning. Technically she'd known that women could orgasm from basically anything, but it'd always sort of struck her as one of those things that made sense in theory but seemed impossible in practice. It certainly hadn't been the most earth-shattering, but there was no mistaking that feeling. "Oh my god, that's so embarrassing."

When she gathered the courage to look up at him, he was beaming. "Embarrassing? That was amazing! How do you feel?"

"Eh. I _guess_ I'm oohh-hokay," she replied; the sarcasm would've had more bite if David hadn't brushed a thumb over her left nipple in the middle of the sentence, resulting in a full-body shudder and weak moan. "Not ready to be done, if you aren't."

"Nope." His grin softened, and he planted an open-mouthed kiss between her breasts, trailing down her stomach as he slipped between her thighs. He paused, opening his mouth as though to say something, then closed it and shook his head with a small smile. She was about to ask if anything was wrong when he licked up the line where her pubic hair met the seam of her thigh, ending with a ticklish nip that made her squeak and writhe under him. Laying one forearm across her lower stomach, he parted her with his other hand, running slicked fingers along her entrance from top to bottom. Nudging her legs open a bit wider, he repeated the motion with his mouth, pausing to dedicate attention to any spots that made her gasp and squirm. When his tongue dipped into her, she let out a choked cry and would've bucked up into his face if his arm hadn't pinned her hips down.

"Is it . . . ?" Gwen didn't know how to finish her question; at that moment, she was having trouble figuring out how words worked. But anxiety still twisted in her chest, and as he popped his head up she knew he heard it in her voice. "You don't have to k-keep going, if you don't want to." He rolled his eyes — one of the few times she'd seen him do it — and bent his head with a quiet laugh to circle her clit with his tongue, closing his lips around it and gently sucking. It took a bit of experimentation to get it right, but once he found a rhythm he was merciless, his tongue fluttering back and forth over her wet skin and two fingers sliding inside her.

It quickly became too much, and she clutched the bedsheet beneath her to keep from grabbing David's hair and grinding against him. Her nails drawing trenches in the soft fabric, she bit back a scream as the tightness that'd been building in her muscles snapped, obliterating everything in brilliant white. When it subsided, she clumsily reached down and tapped on his head, unable to speak yet. _Too much_ , she mouthed, panting, and he nodded. Cleaning off with the towel still sitting on the bed, he nestled against her with a contented hum. His kiss tasted like her, a sensation that was bizarre and not wholly pleasant, but one she could definitely get used to. "Was it all right?" she asked, finding his hand and linking their fingers. "You don't have to do it again, you know."

"Can I?" He shook his head with a tired smile. "Not now, but sometime. That was really . . . nice."

"I can live with 'nice,'" she replied with a laugh, and draped an arm around his waist before dropping off to sleep.

* * *

Gwen woke in the middle of the night, in a room far too dark and quiet — and big, and clean, and well-heated, and not smelling like stale cigarettes and platypus — to be her apartment. For a second she blinked around at the unfamiliar surroundings, then, remembering where she was, she rolled over onto her stomach, reaching for David. When her hand hit cool fabric instead of her space-heater boyfriend, she snapped fully awake.

 _He just went to piss or something,_ she told herself, sitting up and glancing at the dark light beneath the door to the adjoining bathroom. She was embarrassed at the worry that settled as a cold weight in her stomach. It wasn't the first time she'd woken up to an empty bedroom — and if she was lucky, she'd get a short 'thx but im not looking for somthing srs' text a few days later — but it was his own _apartment,_ for fuck's sake. Where was he supposed to go, his mom's house? _Stop being such a weirdo_.

Still, she was up now. Pulling on an oversized T-shirt and boxers, she padded out into the hallway, feeling like she was trespassing. The stillness and quiet were so strange compared to home; the cool silver light of the moon slanting through the windows looked otherworldly without the muting filter of the city's ever-present orange and yellow glow.

She found David sitting backwards on a chair he'd grabbed from the kitchen and placed in front of the living room's large bay window, his arms folded along the chair's back and his chin resting on them. He'd pulled on a pair of flannel pants and wrapped a knitted blanket around his shoulders, but the cozy image was tarnished by the furrow in his brow and the hard set of his mouth. Gwen was going to say hi or give him a hug or something, but she was too baffled by his expression, which seemed both familiar and oddly alien. "Are you mad?" she blurted out, making him jump. She'd never seen him really angry before, and it didn't sit right on him; he wore anger like a moldy overcoat, miserable and itchy. "Did I do something?"

"Oh, Gwen! Hi." He smiled, but it was strained and didn't quite reach his eyes. "No, of course you didn't do anything."

"Yeah?" She took a seat on the floor next to him, pulling the trailing end of the blanket around her and leaning her head on his thigh. "What's pissing you off so much? I never see you like this."

He looked down at her, the line between his eyebrows smoothing away. "I'm not mad," he said with a heavy sigh, sliding off his chair and plopping down on the floor so they could share the blanket more equitably. "I'm just . . . frustrated, I guess."

Biting back the stupid joke that leapt immediately to mind, she asked, "About what?"

"You. How you see yourself." He tightened the blanket around them both, avoiding her eyes. "The way you don't believe I like you."

"Oh." Her heart sank, immediately replaced with defensiveness. "I mean, that's not really fair. Everyone's insecure — you think your whole 'desperate to please' thing is any less fucked up?"

David refused to take the bait. "You know you never say you're sorry for anything?" he asked. "Remember the day Neil and Nikki arrived at camp? You hit me with my guitar. I don't want an apology," he added hastily, stopping her before she could object. "It doesn't matter. But you don't say sorry . . . except when we're together."

"That's . . ." Gwen trailed off, trying to think of a defense.

The problem was that he was right: she _did_ apologize a lot when they messed around, or at least used the bullshit defensive qualifiers that had long been instilled in her as a way of not showing weakness. The way she looked, tasted, sounded, moved — she wanted to make sure that no matter what he or anyone else had to say about her, she'd get it out first so they wouldn't have to.

It didn't take a Psychology degree to recognize that as an "unhealthy behavior pattern." Still, knowing something didn't mean she wanted to admit it. "You apologize more than I do," she muttered, glaring down at her stupid frog-covered boxer shorts.

"I do?" His lips pursed thoughtfully. "Thank you! I didn't know that." Shrugging, he turned his attention to the window, watching a pair of deer — fucking _deer!_ Near apartments! What the fuck _was_ this place? — nibble at the plants in front of the building across the street. "It just makes me sad," he finally said. "The way you talk about yourself. I wish I could do something to make it better, and I get . . . _frustrated_ when I think about who — if there was anyone who made you feel like you're not special."

Oh, she thought she was _special_ , all right. Just not the good kind of special. More like the kind of special that washed up on the shore of Camp Campbell every summer.

Shit, if he was going to be all earnest and heartfelt, the least she could do was go along with him. "Listen, I know I've dated some shitty guys. And maybe that's fucked with my self-esteem or something. But hey," she added, watching with some fascination (and a guilty tinge of arousal) as his jaw tightened, "no need to be pissed at them. They're off living horrible lives somewhere. And besides, gotta throw some of the blame on my mom, right? That's like, what they exist for, being blamed for shit."

Her weak attempt at levity had fallen flat, but he took her hand as though appreciating the effort. "I just wish I could, I don't know . . ."

"What? You wanna beat the shit outta my exes or something?"

"Of course not! I would just tell them that they were unkind —"

Gwen resisted the urge to laugh, but she could imagine squeaky-clean David marching up to a line of greasy-haired, black-clad douchebags and shaking his finger in their jewelry-studded faces, apologizing for seeming harsh but asking them to please clean up their acts and be more respectful to women. And then thank them for their time, probably.

"— and inform them that they . . . they don't deserve to even look at you, because you're better than they could ever be." His voice grew quieter. "I-I mean, I'm not saying that _I_ deserve — I just . . . never mind." He seemed to deflate as he spoke, looking down at their linked hands and letting his unstyled hair flop in front of his eyes.

Her heart tightened into a cold, dense lump in her chest, causing burning tears to prick at the corners of her eyes. Instead of crying, she let go of his hand and threw one leg over both of his, twisting so she was sitting on his lap facing him. She adjusted the blanket so they were wrapped in a warm knitted burrito, then leaned forward until their noses were touching. "Hey. Look at me." He did — or started to, his eyes raising to hers reluctantly before flicking away. "David, I took a train six hours just so you could look at me. You better fucking do it." That time he actually met her gaze with a hesitant smile, the first genuine one since she'd woken up in his empty bed.

This dork. This fucking dork.

She swallowed hard to push away the lump, wanting to look away herself. "I've got some shit I'm working through. So do you, in case you didn't notice. It's gonna take some time to get it all sorted out, if it ever does. But I'll try, okay?" She was surprised to mean it — she _hated_ trying; trying was the first step down the road to failing — but David made it impossible not to wanna at least give it a shot.

"Thank you," he said, his voice hoarse. He rested his forehead against hers with a sigh, his arms lifting from the floor to wrap around her waist. "I'm sorry I made you worry. I shouldn't have disappeared like that."

"I'm sorry I ' _frustrated_ ' you." She smirked. "I'd kinda expected doing that would be more fun."

David chuckled, pretending to look shocked (though his face reddening was probably genuine). "Gwen!"

"What? It's not like there are any impressionable children around to corrupt." Drawing the nail of one finger down his bare chest, she murmured, "Looks like the only one I _can_ corrupt here is you."

"Oh!" His eyes widened, the idea lighting them up as visibly as if a lightbulb had turned on above his head. "Come here!" He started trying to slide her off his lap, escape the blanket, and stand up all at the same time, and she had to scramble backward to avoid the clumsy windmill of limbs her boyfriend had suddenly become.

"Where are we going?" she asked with a laugh as he managed to regain his feet and pull her to hers. Once they were upright, he dragged her down the hall, bouncing ahead of her like an excited puppy and yanking her into a sloppy kiss once the bedroom door had closed.

His enthusiasm was contagious, and she found her pulse speeding up as she helped him undress her. When she reached for the waistband of his pants, though, he covered her hands with his own and shook his head. "Not yet."

"But —" He stepped behind her, and she realized that she was now standing naked in front of a full-length mirror. "You vain motherfucker," she teased, looking up at him (and away from her reflection).

"Shh." He kissed her, then nudged her nose with his chin, trying to lower her head. "Just look."

With a dramatic sigh, she let herself be pulled flush against his chest, one arm wrapping around her chest and the other pressed to her stomach. "What am I looking at?" she asked, her breath catching as he cupped her breast, thumb brushing tantalizingly close to her nipple. His other hand slipped down almost imperceptibly, the very tips of his fingers skimming the small triangle of curls between her legs.

Tilting his head so his breath ghosted across her ear, he whispered, "The pretty lady in the mirror."

"So is there someone _behind_ us, or —"

Then his hands started moving, and she lost track of what they were talking about.

* * *

"God, I — f-fuck, _please,_ David —" She cut off with a whimper, reaching behind them to grab the back of his neck and dig her nails into his skin, rolling her hips forward against his hand.

He had the sense he'd lost control of this experiment. The goal had been to get Gwen to see herself with her doubts and insecurities stripped from her mind, but somehow _he_ was the one who couldn't look away. When she choked out his name again, he faltered, distracted by the sudden warmth that ran down his body in a convulsive shiver. She made a noise like someone breaking, clawing at his neck so hard he wondered if she'd draw blood, and he picked up the pace, repositioning his fingers until he found the motion that drew a shuddering cry from her.

Tightening his other arm around her ribs, he pressed his lips to the hollow in her neck, unable to tear his eyes away from the flushed, panting woman in the mirror. It was one of those rare images he knew he'd carry with him for the rest of his life, the kind of memory that never loses its potency no matter how much time passes. It had burned itself into him, and he didn't think he could forget it if he tried.

If Gwen didn't think she was beautiful (no, not just beautiful, something _more_ — magnificent, breathtaking), then she had to be blind. He knew that wasn't a very nice thing to think, but he couldn't fathom how she missed what was so obvious.

She slumped back against his chest, releasing her grip on his neck and gently rubbing the nail marks with the pads of her fingers. "Sorry," she breathed, craning to look up at him. "Let me make sure I didn't hurt you too bad —"

The only thing the sting made him want was for her to do it again; he thought she had a suspicion about this (his thigh was still sore, after all), but it wasn't a topic he was eager to bring up until he had to. Pulling his hand away from her blood-hot skin, he pecked her cheek. "You really don't see it?"

Gwen reluctantly turned to her reflection, her lips pursing as she studied herself. Her skin was practically luminescent in the patchy moonlight, but still so dark against his own, and strands of her wild hair stuck to her sweat-slick skin. She finally sighed, shaking her head. "I dunno? I just . . . I'm sorry, David, I don't get it. I mean, I don't look _worse_ than anyone else?" Wriggling free of his arms, she turned and snuggled into his side. "I feel like I failed."

"N-no that's not — please don't . . ." He hugged her, reminding himself not to squeeze too tight (she was so strong, he sometimes forgot). "I didn't mean to make you feel . . . bad," he finished lamely. "Besides, it's not like I don't understand what you mean. I don't — you know, I'm not . . ." He suspected it would be easier to talk if his skin wasn't touching so much of hers, but he couldn't bring himself to pull away.

She rolled her eyes, an expression he was starting to identify as affectionate more often than angry. "Oh, yeah. Because _no_ one likes gorgeous redheads. I'm real unlucky over here."

That . . . was sarcasm. If the tone hadn't given it away, the look on her face definitely did. He thought "gorgeous" was a bit of an exaggeration, but darn it, she could always make him smile. "Thank you."

"Yeah, like it's a problem." Dropping the attitude, she turned to him with a shy smile. "So? How do you feel about fucking the most beautiful woman in the world?" His heart lifted, and her grin widened. "I mean, she's not _here_ , but if you'd settle for me instead —"

He pulled her into a hard kiss, cutting her off. Sometimes the best way to argue with Gwen was to just . . . stop talking.

He couldn't deny that it was his favorite method.

* * *

 _"In four years, did you ever . . ._ think _. . . about me?"_

Oh, she had no idea.

David hadn't lied when he said that he'd begun liking her in earnest a year or two before this last summer. But he couldn't quite bring himself to add that he'd — well, _noticed_ her long before that.

The first week she'd begun at Camp Campbell, Gwen had mostly kept to herself, staying in her room or wandering the grounds alone in her free time. So it was a surprise to stumble upon her in the counselors' living room, cross-legged on the sagging couch with a pile of books and the threadbare blanket he'd himself made when he was a camper.

"Hey, coworker." She'd looked up and grinned, sticking her thumb in her spine of her book and reaching for the other novels spread across the cushions. "Did you want to watch TV or something? I don't need to take up this much room —"

"Goodness, no!" He shook his head, taking a seat at the card table. "You must be a very fast reader!"

She shrugged, looking away with a small smile. "I mean, these are like popcorn. You can knock one out in a weekend." Stretching her legs out in front of her, she held up the book in her lap and rolled her eyes; it had the torso of a shirtless man on the cover, his tattooed skin fading into delicate silver fur. "I spent four years in undergrad reading 'real' books. Sometimes I need to not think, you know?"

He did. "So they're . . . love stories?"

"You're kidding me, right?" She was staring at him, her mouth partially open and her eyebrows high. " _Jesus_." She set her book aside and climbed to her feet, tossing the blanket off as an afterthought. "Hold on, let me get something," Gwen said, brushing past him to her bedroom. While she was gone, he focused on the furry torso, reminding himself that it was normal for a grown woman to sit in the living room in a tank top and pajama shorts after hours. It was her home, after all, and they could hardly wear the counselor uniform all the time. There was nothing noteworthy about it.

The slam of a door made him jump, and she bounded back into the room, tossing a book onto the table. "Feeling brave?" she asked, resuming her place on the couch — though she left the blanket aside, which was a perfectly unremarkable thing for her to do. "It's not bad, really. Very romantic. The ending made me cry, so I think you'll like it."

Glancing from her to the cover, which was dominated by a very pretty woman in a black dress, he picked it up with slightly unsteady fingers. " _The Boss_?" He flipped it over, quickly scanning the plot summary and feeling his face warm.

"Okay, it's a _little_ kinky," Gwen said quickly, reading the discomfort on his face. "But it's so good, David, I promise. And you can finish it in like a day." She leaned forward, more earnest than he'd seen since she'd arrived. "I don't have anyone to talk to about books now that my sister's got her new job. I'll read something of yours, too — like a trade?"

Well, David didn't have any books at the camp to offer in return . . . but the excitement in her eyes was impossible to turn down. "I'll give it a shot," he said with a smile. He'd been looking for something to do in the evenings anyway, now that the Bob Ross miniseries on PBS had ended.

"Awesome!" Snatching up her book, she turned so her back was against the arm of the couch, her knees bent and the book open on her thighs. "Now hush. She's about to save him from a pack of werewolves, and there's _always_ boning when that happens. This author is so bad, it's gonna be fucking hilarious."

Would it be rude to correct her language? They hardly knew each other, but she couldn't talk like that around the campers . . . "O-of course." He stood, turning quickly toward his room before glancing back over his shoulder. "See you tomorrow, Gwen!" She nodded, already absorbed in her reading.

Once back in the safety of his room, David set the book front of him, putting his elbows on the desk and staring the small volume down like it was a bomb. He had a general idea what "dominant" and "submissive" meant, but he wasn't sure what place they had in a love story. Chewing on his bottom lip, he flipped it open and began to read.

It was a normal book, he was surprised to find. A little like that movie his mom loved, _The Devil Wears Prada,_ only instead of Meryl Streep it was a middle-aged British man named Neil. It was charming, actually, and while he could guess how it would end, but stories like that were comforting. And it seemed like a standard love story; there were references to a past sexual relationship, but nothing worse than the average song on the radio.

_"My body throbbed, like it always did when I remembered that night. I pressed my thighs together for just a second before I slipped my hand —"_

Oh.

Slamming the book shut, he ran a hand through his hair and let out a long, shuddering breath. For a few seconds (or minutes), he stared out the window facing the woods, though in the dark it was impossible to see anything except his own flushed reflection.

Looking back down, he flicked through the pages. Best to get through it quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

_"My blood pounded, remembering that first hard smack; the shocking sound of it echoing off the walls, the stinging pain that had taken a moment to really set in. He'd soothed it nearly away with the same hand that had delivered the blow, then another had landed, and another. Each time, I'd worried I wouldn't be able to take the next. . . ._

_"His long fingers had skated beneath my thong, pulling it up tighter against my aching pus —"_

David closed it again, pushing his chair back. Tapped his fingers on his knee. Glanced up at the clock.

Picked up the book.

* * *

"Wow." He looked down at his watch, his eyes widening as he realized it was well past 2 a.m. He wasn't much of a sleeper, not anymore, but it was strange that hours had been sucked away from him without his realizing.

He wasn't as far as he could've been in the book, to be fair. Certain scenes required several stops and starts, a few minutes to take some very deep breaths and think about . . . other things. ( _Any_ other things; he found that naming all of the activities Camp Campbell offered in reverse alphabetical order worked especially well.)

He'd gathered a very useful piece of information, however: the difference between a love story and a romance. That difference, as far as he could tell, was the amount of sex.

Romance novels had a lot of it, it turned out.

_"He slipped one arm beneath the bend of my left knee and raised my leg, driving deeper, holding me hard to him._

_"'Please, please, please,' I gasped, and though I didn't know exactly what I was asking for, I was totally confident that he did._

_"Oh, he totally did."_

"Ooookay." David rested his forehead against the comparatively-cool glass of his window, closing his eyes. "Okay. That's enough." Pushing his chair back, he grabbed his towel and headed to the shower.

He turned the water hot enough to hurt, closing his eyes and letting the day wash off of him. It wasn't as though the book itself was much of a problem: he was an adult, and there was nothing particularly wrong with — well, being an adult. The thing that made him push the book away, the problem that he tried to scrub out of his skin and mind, was sleeping about thirty feet away.

Gwen had _read_ that book. S-she . . . she might have . . .

He dropped his head against the tile wall with a groan. It was disrespectful to think of someone like that without their permission. He knew that.

He _knew_ it.

"Hair," he muttered, revitalized by the distraction. Shaking his head to clear it, he worked the shampoo through his hair with more focus than usual, concentrating on the mechanical movement of his fingers and the drumming of the water on his head and shoulders. It wiped his mind clean, reduced his thought process to that second and nothing more, and he moved to the conditioner feeling much lighter. Then he remembered that it was a special conditioner, with very particular instructions to let it sit for five minutes before rinsing. That was always a dangerous game with Camp Campbell's inconsistent water supply, but suddenly those five minutes stretched ahead of him like five hours.

Of course, it wasn't like he _had_ to. He wouldn't go bald if he rinsed it out immediately or anything. But . . . those were what the instructions said. He liked following instructions, and no matter how much he told himself to just not bother, he eyed his waterproof watch and counted the seconds as they ticked by.

A droplet of water landed on the clock face, obscuring the numbers, and when he went to brush it off he realized that his hands were still gooey with conditioner.

Well, that was an easy solution. _Just rinse it off_ , he told himself. Wash his hands and go back to waiting out the next 4 minutes and 23 seconds.

Except for some reason he was finding it impossible to move.

He wasn't how long he stood there, staring at his hands. Or when he finally admitted to himself that he'd given up.

"Gosh _darn_ it." The words jolted him into motion, slick fingers reluctantly closing around himself and drawing out a bone-deep shudder. For a second he was frozen, his last threadbare shreds of self control fighting bitterly to reassert themselves.

 _She's your coworker,_ he reminded himself, using his sternest Counselor Voice. _You see her every day, she's practically a stranger, and she has a boyfriend. Besides, it's not a nice thing to do!_

That voice never worked on his campers, and it wasn't stopping him now.

Biting down hard on his lip to muffle the groan that threatened to echo around the too-loud bathroom, David leaned against the cool tile and screwed his eyes shut. He twisted his hand at the tip and gasped, burning tendrils snaking up his spine and thrumming through his veins. He cast his mind desperately for someone else to focus on, someone he didn't know personally. Someone famous enough that they hardly felt real, that he'd never have to worry about making eye contact in the halls with or running into in the middle of the night. But it didn't matter what he tried to think about — Katy Perry, Emma Stone, Chris Evans — because like a rubber band snapping to shape, he kept being dragged back to impossibly long brown legs, a low throaty laugh, erratic red tendrils that fell in loose spirals when it got damp, bright purple eyes and a hesitant smile.

His free hand slid up to his hair, grabbing a fistful and tightening his grip until it hurt. With a choked whimper, he yanked hard enough to jerk his head back under the lukewarm spray; the pain was like touching a live wire, and his stomach tied in knots that shouldn't feel this good, they shouldn't, _he_ shouldn't. Not when his mind was so overwhelmed by the image of his co-counselor arching her back and swallowing back shallow, breathy moans, as affected as he was by the little volume sitting on his desk.

"Oh god," he whined, his chest heaving with a wet breath that was almost a sob, his whole body shaking like he was standing in a hurricane instead of a shower, and for a second he wondered if it was too much, if he was going to die from the heat coursing through his limbs and fluttering with every slide of his hand. Then the world seemed to tilt violently as the pressure that had been building gave way and his vision burst black and then white and then black again, and it felt like he was being torn apart but in the best way. His hips rolling forward, he curled up on himself, slapping the hand that had been in his hair against the shower wall to keep himself on his feet.

For a minute or two David could only lean there, his brain fuzzy and warm and buzzing. Letting out a deep breath, he drew himself upright, standing under the cooling water and waiting for his heart rate to return to normal. _Well,_ he thought with a sigh, rinsing himself off and biting back a groan at the electric jolt of overstimulation, _that could have gone better._

But it was fine. Because it wouldn't happen again. Because he would just . . . not let it. Yes, that was the plan. He'd work out the details later.

Suddenly remembering his stupid conditioner, he glanced at his watch and couldn't hold back a quiet laugh. Five minutes exactly.

By the time he turned the water off, his limbs trembling and unbelievably heavy, the water had become frigid. Skin prickling from the sudden temperature change — and _nothing else —_ he wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the bathroom door.

"Whoa." Gwen stood outside the door with her hand raised to knock, her eyes wide and her mouth popping open in surprise. "Didn't know I'd have to fight for the bathroom at 3:30 in the morning."

He squeezed past her, holding his breath until they'd traded places on either side of the doorframe. "Um, the water's cold. It does that."

"Yeah, I noticed the first time it ran out after thirty seconds." She rolled her eyes, smirking. "Just forgot my retainer, so I guess I dodged a bullet this time."

"Mid-afternoon is usually pretty good. No one else showers then, I don't think . . ." Why was he still talking?

"All right." She played with the end of her ponytail. "Thanks for the tip."

Making a noise somewhere between "hmm" and "ngh," he shuffled backward with an uncomfortable smile.

His retreat was interrupted by her voice. "Hey, started the book?" she asked, grinning as he instinctively looked away. "How is it?"

"It's, ah, good. I like her best friend."

Gwen gave him a look he couldn't quite read. "Right, she's great. But, like, what about Neil?" She put her hands on her heart with a melodramatic sigh. "I love him so much. I mean, I basically _am_ Sophie, so maybe I'm biased, but he's pretty fucking hot, right?"

He choked on nothing, taking a few seconds to get back under control. Okay, so she quite literally saw herself as the main character when she'd read it. That was . . . informative. And interfered a bit with his plan, but it was still fine. "Yeah," he said, not sure what exactly he was agreeing to. "Well . . . goodnight?"

"Night, David." Still with that odd expression, she gave him a little wave and closed the bathroom door.

Returning to his room, he leaned back against the closed door, sliding to the floor and drawing his knees up to his chest. "Oh boy," he whispered, covering his mouth with a shaking hand.

He might be in trouble.

* * *

David couldn't imagine what he would've thought, at twenty years old, to know that he would someday be here: curled around his bizarre and caustic co-counselor, listening to her breaths grow steady and even and feeling her grip on the arm she'd draped over herself slacken. His past self might've fainted, he realized with a smile.

He'd thought Gwen was asleep, and jumped when he felt the gentle pressure of her lips on his knuckles. "You're not gonna disappear on me, are you?" she asked, rolling onto her back but keeping his hand captive against her chest like a teddy bear. He wondered if she was aware of how quiet her voice got when she was sincere, even if her expression was amused.

He shook his head, nuzzling into the space between her neck and her shoulder. "No, I'm . . . I'm, uh, here." Smiling gently so she'd know he wasn't making fun of her, he added, "You don't have to hold my hand to make sure."

She frowned down at it. "Can I, though?"

He nodded with a huff of laughter that ghosted over her neck, making her wriggle away from him a few inches (after a moment, she wormed her way back into position). "You know, I was so afraid of you." David wasn't aware he'd spoken out loud until her eyes popped open and focused on his.

"When we met?" She smirked, shaking her head and tickling his nose with her hair. "I was trying so damn hard to be all sunshine and rainbows, too. How long did it take for me to stop being scary?"

He'd have to let her know when it happened. "You're just . . . overwhelming, I guess?" Gwen didn't hide her feelings under politeness or the desire to look cool; aside from when she got defensive, she rarely tried to fake anything — boredom, irritation, excitement. She didn't doctor her language or stories based on who was in the room, she didn't try to put a spin on anything. Maybe she was just too awkward to pull off a convincing mask. It was strange, when she first started working there and unleashing all of her . . . self wherever she went. It made his job harder, it made conversations with her impossible. It was messy and frustrating and very inappropriate.

It took him about three months to realize it was one of his favorite things about her.

"Look who's fucking talking, Camp Man. It was _years_ before I could spend all day with you without being ready to collapse."

"Really? Am I tiring?"

She snorted. "Like a goddamn puppy, David." She yawned, and he kissed her shoulder, knowing there was a light smattering of freckles there even though he couldn't see them in the darkness.

"Goodnight, Gwen." She responded with a sleepy hum and then fell silent.

She'd told him before that he fell asleep like a little kid: instantly and impossible to wake up. The truth was, he just slept better when she was around. Wrapped up in her smell and her warmth, he drifted off, getting a full night of sleep for the first time since the summer had ended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Boss is totally a real book: it's by Abigail Barnette, and you can literally get it for free on your kindle (https://www.amazon.com/Boss-Abigail-Barnette-2013-11-03/dp/B01LWV0P30/), and you should because it's great. (Also shh, technically it came out in 2013 and Gwen started working there in 2012. Let's just play pretend because I don't own any other romance novels and this is a fantastic one for making David the awkwardest. Especially because he's a closet freak and needs to learn that.) Yes, the fact that the hero's name is Neil is unfortunate, but David hasn't MET Camp Camp Neil yet, so it's only weird for you, the reader. And if I can't make my porn a little uncomfortable for my readers, I'm just not doing my job.
> 
> I also love how basically the smut-writing fandom of CC decided that David: a) is a masochist, b) only swears during sex, and c) is into dudes. I'm kinda fucking with that by making him bisexual, but hey, I'm technically not breaking the rules.
> 
> P.S. If you wanna play "spot what Forestwater ripped off like the talentless hack she is!" go check out Ciphernetics and Micheoff. You'll probably notice a couple things.


	5. Fathers and Mothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's harder being apart than they'd expected, but it makes the times they can see each other that much more special. Gwen visits David in the beautiful land to the north. (Part 3 of 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so this chapter was beta'd by HopefullyPessimistic (http://archiveofourown.org/users/HopefullyPessimistic/) and R.A. Enbows (http://raenbowsofficial.tumblr.com/). Check those lovely people out for all your Camp Camp needs.

"Ugh." Gwen rolled over, patting desperately at her phone to shut up the awful birdcalls. "Isn't it still Saturday?" They'd spent her first full day in Canada wandering around town, David inexplicably dressed like it was thirty degrees warmer than it was. The tour was only supposed to take an hour or two, but it seemed every streetlight and rosebush had a story attached to it, and she couldn't bring herself to cut him off, not when he was so excited to show her everything. Unfortunately, that was about 200% more exercise than she was accustomed to, and every muscle in her body objected to movement that morning.

Of course, it wasn't actually her alarm making the apartment sound like the middle of the rainforest. David sat up, his hair sticking up in every direction. "Nope." He yawned, stretching. "Six-thirty."

" _Christ_." That was probably a bad choice of words, come to think of it. But no one was supposed to get out of bed on the weekend before 9 a.m. "You do this every week?"

He shrugged, climbing out of bed. "Sure. I can't skip without having to arrange another Sunday school teacher, and that's just inconvenient for everyone. You get used to it." His eyes widened. "I mean, not that I expect _you_ to get used to it! It's really nice that you're doing this, but I don't —"

It was too early to have this conversation. She waved his worries away and reluctantly pushed the sheets back. "Nah, I get it. But if your mom pulls out holy water and garlic, I'm leaving." After a few minutes of listening to him get ready in the bathroom, she stumbled in after him, hunting for her toothbrush. "Sunday school, huh?"

"Yep! They gave me the first graders this year, and even you'll have to admit they're really cute. Full of questions." He smiled down at her, handing her the toothpaste. "It's not quite as fun as camp, but it's nice to spend time with kids, you know?"

She didn't know, at all, but it fit David perfectly. "Why didn't you become a teacher? They get summers off, right? And . . . I mean, you'd probably like it."

"Yeah," he agreed with a wistful sigh. "But I was tired of school. It's not something I'm very good at, and I just wanted to start . . . life, I guess." He shrugged. "That probably sounds stupid."

"No." It actually sounded like the exact reason Gwen hadn't gone on to get her Master's, despite her parents insisting (correctly) that she'd never get employed without it. "That makes sense."

"Besides, I like my jobs. It's nice having the chance to do so many different things!"

Leaving the bathroom, she fumbled around in her suitcase — he'd offered to let her use his dresser and closet, but that was just begging for things to get lost — looking for something that appropriately said, "I am a polite and God-fearing woman who will not corrupt your son with her sinful ways." Luckily, the dress code at Casa de Cynthia was much more casual than her own parents', and she'd realized quickly that most of what she'd brought was way overdressy. Which made for perfect church clothes. Well, she assumed; she hadn't set foot in a house of worship since her parents had given up the pretense around third grade. (They'd handed her a Bible, a Qur'an, and a Tripitaka, told her they were freethinkers, and left her to make her own decision. Her own decision, motivated primarily by laziness, was to throw the books under her bed and never touch them again. Until she'd moved into her apartment, when they were placed at the very end of her bookshelf, handsome and impressive and thoroughly unread.)

She was standing in the middle of David's bedroom in her underwear, contemplating the two outfits she'd laid out on the bed, when she heard his soft footsteps from behind her. "So what are we thinking?" she asked without turning around. "Cute" — she pointed at the first, a plaid swing dress that looked more like an oversized shirt — "or nun?" The "nun" dress was a high-necked navy blue in a heavy, stiff fabric with a thick belt around the waist — another of her mom's selections, chosen for its "professional" and "slimming" qualities.

He padded to her side, peering down at the clothes with a shrug. "You always look cute."

"Okay, that's not helpful." She grabbed the nun dress with a sigh, trying to shake out the wrinkles. "We're going full _Sound of Music_ here, then."

"I _love_ that movie!"

"Of course you do." Yanking it over her head, she listened to him rustle around, opening and closing drawers. It was weirdly domestic to eavesdrop on his morning rituals, like they were living together for more than the week. When she was finished fussing with her clothes, she looked up to see that David was already dressed. "How do you do that so fast?"

"Camp," he explained with a nostalgic smile, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt. "You learned fast that the best food goes first, so unless you wanted to be stuck with the Quartermaster's stranger 'experiments' —"

"I _knew_ that whole 'adventurous spirit' speech was bullshit!" He had the decency to look ashamed, avoiding her gaze as he searched through his dresser. "Wait, what are you wearing?"

"Huh?" David straightened, looking down at his clothes: a light blue, long-sleeved button-down shirt, dark gray slacks, and real shoes — not sneakers or boots. "Something wrong with it?"

"Well for one, you're wearing pants. And grown-up shoes." She noticed the scrap of teal fabric he was holding in one hand instead of his usual yellow ascot. "Oh my god, is that a _tie?_ " Starting to look agitated by her scrutiny, he turned his back to her to fumble with the tie, and she took the opportunity to creep up behind him and wrap her arms around his waist. "I'm sorry, it's cute," she said, stretching up to kiss one of his reddening ears. "Better than cute, actually."

Turning halfway to face her, he quirked up one eyebrow — a skill that apparently everyone except her possessed, because the universe was unfair. "Really?"

"I mean, this church must be full of old ugly people, huh?" She straightened his collar and smoothed down the wrinkles her hug had caused. "Because if you're showing up looking like this every week, there's _no_ way I should've been your first . . . well, anything."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, seeming torn between exasperation and amusement. "You're —"

She twined her arms behind his neck, capturing his bottom lip between hers before he could finish. For a second he kept trying to talk, then surrendered, dipping his tongue into her mouth and flattening one palm against the small of her back.

When they parted to breathe, she kept the distance between them minimal, bumping the side of her nose against his. "So, uh . . . how much time do we have, anyway?" she asked, slipping out of her heels and sliding the toes of one silk-covered foot under the cuff of one of his pant legs.

His eyes snapped open, and he pulled back. "Gwen," he began with a sigh.

Shit, was this breaking some kind of religious rule? Or . . . did she want him too much? Gwen had always heard that guys were the ones who were always thinking about sex, but she was so painfully aware of how little time they had before being separated for months. Even when falling asleep, she buzzed with the desire to touch him, to nuzzle into his chest and soak up his warmth and comfort.

But maybe he didn't feel the same way. Maybe she was coming on way too strong.

David evaluated her for what felt like several minutes, then glanced up at the clock above the door with a groan. "If I have to iron this shirt," he warned, loosening his tie with one hand, "we're going to be _really_ late."

She grinned before she could stop herself, then tried to hide it under a solemn expression. "I mean, we don't _have_ to, if you don't — you know, I get that it was kinda last minute, so if you'd rather, like, not, it's totally fine and — _aah!_ " He picked her up around the waist, spinning her around like she weighed practically nothing before tripping over her discarded shoes and sending them both toppling half-on and half-off the bed. "Sorry," she said, giggling, as he scooted up onto the edge of the mattress, pulling her forward so that she was straddling his lap. He frowned, and she quickly added, "Just kidding, I'm _not_ sorry. I'm confident or something. So . . . uh, suck a dick."

He kissed her, and she was relieved she'd decided not to wear any makeup this morning. "Fancy clothes, huh?" he asked with a breathy laugh, unbuckling her belt.

She bit her lip, trying to decide how embarrassed she should be. "Kinda," she finally admitted. "If you had reading glasses, you'd basically get Nerdy Girl Bingo."

"Oh, that's right! Remind me to grab those before we leave."

Her mouth dropped open. " _Now_ you're just fucking with me."

"A little bit," he replied, looking absurdly proud of himself.

"Bastard."

(They weren't late. They showed up a little mussed and red-faced, but perfectly on time.)

* * *

Church wasn't bad, it turned out. A lot of standing and sitting, and a several-page booklet she had to constantly refer to — which occasionally told her to turn to pages of _other_ books and booklets until she felt like she was taking some kind of speed-test — but the music was nice, the head priest or whatever had a relatively interesting speech about refugees, and she wasn't smote into dust or put to sleep at any point. Besides, the place looked like a medieval castle and was lit with a thousand candles, so she felt a little like the heroine of one of her favorite historical romances.

Aside from a very uncomfortable moment in the middle when everyone was forced to shake hands with the people around them, she considered it a success.

Immediately afterward, she was subjected to several minutes of meeting a bunch of people who'd all known David since he was born. Fortunately he remained plastered to her side the entire time, jumping in and saving her from awkward questions and keeping his arm around her shoulders so she wouldn't feel totally overwhelmed. Still, when he peeled them away to go teach Sunday school, she was more than happy to follow him downstairs into one of the small, dusty classrooms ringed with rainbow chairs.

"Sure you don't want to help?" he asked, shuffling through the papers he'd been left on the table. "It could be fun. Like camp again!"

"Fuck that," she said, immediately clapping a hand over her mouth; though the room was empty, she was pretty sure "don't say 'fuck' in Sunday school" was one of the cardinal rules. She settled into one of the few adult-sized chairs. "Like camp, I think I'll sit back here and let you handle things, co-counselor."

Before he could reply, there was a tentative knock on the door, and a stream of children poured into the room.

It wasn't like Gwen hadn't seen kids before — she lived in New York, after all, and there was no way to avoid her married friends' Instagrams — but seeing how tiny they were next to tall, gangling David was a shock. And they were so happy! Sure, it was the shrieky, hyper kind of happy of children high on juice and cookies, but it was a pleasant change from the moody campers she was used to.

Plus, he'd been right: they _were_ cute.

"All right, guys!" David cut through the chatter. "We have a special guest this week! This is Gwen, and she's going to sit in with us and learn today's lesson. Everyone to say hi!" There was a chorus of high-pitched greetings, and then he turned their attention back to the front of the room by pulling out a box of rainbow dry-erase markers.

"Mr. _Daaaaaavid_ ," one of the kids whined, "are we gonna sing songs today?"

He gave them an apologetic smile. "Sorry, guys. I was . . . uh, running late this morning and forgot my guitar at home." (Gwen winced, studying her feet and trying to will her cheeks not to flush.) Changing the subject quickly, he continued, "Anyway, this week we're going to hear about a very important lady named Deborah, and we're going to draw her right here . . ."

It was amazing how different he seemed when surrounded by kids too young to be cynical. His bouncy energy was basically the same, but there was something downplayed about it, a bit more natural — like he didn't have to try so hard to keep them engaged.

She was touched by how patient he was, too, responding to interruptions like every one was of the utmost importance, from a dumbed-down version of why judges weren't the same thing as princesses to spending nearly five minutes rescuing a spider from the carpet and setting it on the outer windowsill. When one of the kids drew a streak of purple down the side of his shirt, he just laughed and mussed the kid's hair before smoothly confiscating the marker.

"Did you have fun?" he asked her as the students filed out, carefully recapping markers and putting away scissors.

Gwen stood and helped him clean up. "That was pretty adorable," she admitted, looking around at the whiteboards that dominated the three walls. They were covered with brilliantly vibrant stick figures — some of which were relevant to the lesson, like chariots and armies, and some that weren't, like kittens and one very large apple with a worm sticking out of it. (David insisted on taking all of the children's suggestions to help draw the story, which made for a very bizarre tale, even for the Bible.) She was reluctant to erase it without taking a picture. "Not quite sure where Mario fit into it, though."

He laughed, shaking his head. "I like to keep them entertained. And they'll remember the story better."

"They'll remember _something_ , anyway."

"Uh . . . David?" They turned at the sound of a girl's voice. A pretty teenager hovered in the doorway, shifting from one foot to the other.

"Erika, hi!" His face brightened. "Gwen, this was one of my students last year. How are you? How's middle school?"

"Okay. It's just . . ." Erika glanced over at Gwen and looked away, biting her lip and getting cherry-colored gloss on her braces. "I was wondering if maybe we could talk before you go?"

"Well, I'd love to, but —"

Gwen jumped in, dropping her dry eraser into his hand. "I'll wait in the hall." Returning his grateful smile, she slipped outside, pulling the door shut behind her, and glanced around the shadowy basement with a sigh. What was it about an empty church that made it three million times creepier than any other building?

"So what's going on?" David's voice came from just behind her feet, making her jump. Glancing down, she saw an air vent that was probably connected to the clanking radiators in the classroom. She hoped the priest — was it a priest? — didn't do confessions in there . . .

Erika was telling David about her love life; she wondered how someone could ever consider him a good source of romantic advice, but it was kind of cute how the kids seemed to look up to him. She was about to find her way back upstairs to give them privacy when something caught her attention. "And it's j-just . . . I want a boyfriend but the seventh-grade dance is coming up and my friend and I were going to go, just as friends, but I . . ." She sniffled, her voice thickening with tears. "I might like her, too. The way I like boys, I mean."

Shit. Was that allowed in churches? Gwen vaguely remembered hearing about how some sects were cool with that kind of thing, but all she could think of was the Westboro Baptist Church and her extremely Catholic grandmother. Hearing footsteps, she immediately plopped to the floor, pressing herself against the wall as much as she possibly could to block the vent.

It was the priest, still dressed in his robes and carrying a stack of books. He was a gentle-looking old man who was almost stereotypically grandfatherly, and he smiled upon seeing her. "Gwen, isn't it? David's friend?" he said, holding out his hand to her.

Well, she couldn't just sit on the floor and have a conversation with the guy. Praying that nothing scandalous would come through the air vents, she clambered to her feet and shook his hand. "Uh, yeah. Just waiting for him, actually. He's talking to a student —"

"Can I tell you a secret, Erika?" There was a snuffling hum of assent, then David's voice once again filled the empty hall, almost as clear as if he'd been right there with them: "So do I."

Gwen jumped in, scrambling for a change of topic. "That, um, speech you gave this morning was . . . really something. I —"

Sensing her panic, the man held up one hand, and she stuttered to a halt.

"Y-you . . . ?" Thankfully, Erika didn't seem inclined to finish her question, and Gwen began to wonder if there was something to this whole "frantically begging a deity not to fuck you over" thing.

Unfortunately, even divine intervention couldn't stop her boyfriend: "Do you know what bisexuality is?"

" _Duh_." There was a pause, where Gwen wished the entire building would just be swallowed up by an earthquake, and the priest waited with a small half-smile, looking at nothing in particular like he was listening to a mildly interesting story. "My mom says it's an excuse for slutty women who are going to hell."

"Well, do you think _I'm_ a slutty woman?" That got a teary laugh out of the little girl. "Sometimes people — especially grown-ups — have a lot of opinions about things they don't understand. But I can tell you from personal experience: I like girls _and_ boys. And that's okay."

Unable to keep quiet anymore, Gwen burst out, "Listen, sir —"

"Father. Father Raymond."

"R-right. Father." For a horrifying second she was overcome with the urge to call him "daddy," because when she was uncomfortable her brain short-circuited and immediately tried to find ways to make it worse. (This was part of why she preferred hiding behind magazines instead of talking to people.) But the last thing she wanted was to get David in more trouble, so she just said, keeping her voice just above a whisper in case sound traveled through the vent both ways, "don't be mad at David. He loves teaching so much, and he's really good with the kids, and I know it'd just kill him if he was . . . uh, kicked out." Can people get kicked out of church? Was that what excommunication was?

He shook his head, laughing. "Please, don't. I —" He cut himself off, the voices from the vent once again drawing their attention.

"What if you're wrong?" Erika's voice was barely a whisper; if anyone had been walking by, their footsteps would've drowned out her words. "What if you're wrong and they're right, and th-there's something wrong with me and we're going to h-hell and . . ." She trailed off with a choked sob.

There was a long silence, and Gwen just stared at the priest, frozen. She wasn't sure what David could say that would be the "right" answer, but she could think of about fifty different wrong ones. "Last year, what did I always have your class say at the end of the lesson?"

"'Jesus loves everybody,'" she recited, and they could practically hear her rolling her eyes.

"Are you part of everybody?" She just scoffed, causing him to laugh. "This is important, Erika. Everybody includes you. And maybe I'm wrong, but I think if someone's idea of love is making a good kid like you cry because you were born different, then that's not right." He sighed. "I don't know what happens if I'm wrong. I just know I'm not."

Father Raymond surprised her with a quiet _tsk_ , shaking his head. "I'll need to have a talk with him about originality," he said with a smile. "Tell him to avoid the air vents next time, will you?" She nodded, and he patted her hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Gwen, but I need to return to work. Say hello to David for me."

Feeling a little like she'd just failed a pop quiz, Gwen settled back against the wall and watched the priest head back upstairs.

"Was that your girlfriend?" There was a moment of silence, then Erika added, "She's pretty."

She could hear the smile in David's voice as he said, "Yeah, she is."

There was a quiet scuffling of chairs being pushed back and Gwen scrambled to pull her phone out, stuffing her headphones in just as the door opened. "Everything all right?" she asked, glancing down at the little girl. Erika's eyes were red and she wiped at her nose with the sleeve of her shirt, but she grinned up at David and tossed her hair over her shoulder.

"Of course!" they said in unison, glancing conspiratorially at one another, and for a second she caught a glimpse of what he would've been like as a big brother.

Erika skipped off, and once they were alone in the hallway he pecked her cheek, as though that would've scandalized a seventh grader. "Thanks for waiting," he said with a bashful smile. "I hope you weren't too bored."

Gwen laughed nervously. "About that . . . you can hear everything that's going on through these air vents." She kicked one lightly with her heel for emphasis, cringing at the too-loud _clang_ it made. "Your, uh, priest guy overheard some of it."

"Oh!" He looked down at the vent, then at the classroom, his face reddening. "And you —?" She nodded, smirking as he gulped, twirling the end of his tie around his fingers. "Is that . . . okay?"

"What?" They were distracted by the arrival of several middle-aged women, and David took her by the elbow and led her to the exit.

"Well, th-that I'm — you know." Despite the relative seclusion of the parking lot, he kept his voice low and avoided her eyes. "It doesn't . . . bother you, right?"

She was taken aback. Okay, she'd thought he might be a little embarrassed about being overheard, but he was surprisingly nervous, almost frightened. "But . . . I already knew."

"I _know_ that!" His voice was strained, too loud and just a little shaky. He let out a long exhale, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I just, I don't, I've never . . . well, said it. To you, I mean."

Her chest tightened, a wave of something she didn't want to identify sending prickles across her skin and making her eyes sting. "Coming out's scary, huh?" she said gently, pulling her elbow out of his grip and lacing her fingers with his.

He blushed. "A little, I guess."

"It's fine, David. Really." She rested her head against his for a second, pulling away as they reached the car and giving him a small grin. "Besides, now I have someone to freak out over Captain America with. Audree's gonna be so relieved she doesn't have to sit through those movies anymore."

"I can do that," he said with a quiet laugh.

After a moment, Gwen cleared her throat, picking at her fingernail polish. "You're not gonna get in trouble, right?" she asked. "With the priest? For saying all that stuff?"

He looked confused. "Why would I? It's what he told me when I was a kid."

 _Oh_. As David started the car and turned toward his mother's house, he asked, "What's so funny?"

She realized that she was smiling like an idiot. "Nothing. It's just . . . Father Ray seems pretty cool." He gasped, letting out a little squeak, but with his eyes locked on the road she couldn't figure out why. "What?"

" _I_ like something cool," he said, practically wiggling with glee.

"Okay, fine. You get _one_ cool thing," she conceded, rolling her eyes and laughing when he beamed and pumped one fist into the air. He immediately lost his smile and returned to his perfect ten-two grip on the steering wheel.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have put our lives in danger like that."

Again that rush of warmth, affection so intense it bordered on alarming. _You don't love him_ , she told herself sternly. _It's infatuation, perfectly normal at this stage in the relationship, but don't think for even a second that you love him._

Gwen shook her head, pushing the thought — and the knot it created in her stomach — away. "All right, Fast n' Furious. Try not to leave too many bodies in your wake."

* * *

Watching David set out utensils and dishes for dinner was impressive, like he was preparing to cast a really complicated spell or something. Cynthia had laughed and hurried out of the room, insisting that being in the kitchen with him was like having front-row tickets to an explosion, but Gwen was fascinated. "Where'd you learn how to cook?" she asked, trying to get a glance at the recipe book he clutched to his chest, eyes darting from it to his supplies every few seconds.

He angled the book away so she couldn't read over his shoulder. "I did most of the cooking growing up. Mom took classes at night, and Dad worked really late, so my babysitter used to teach me recipes. When I was old enough, I started making things on my own." After a few minutes, where she watched him line up spices with ludicrous care, he smiled and set the book aside. "Go," he said, nudging her shoulder. "Talk to my mom."

"But I don't wanna," she whined, glancing into the living room. It wasn't that her past boyfriends' parents didn't _like_ her — as a general rule she never met them — but she wasn't exactly the best at small talk. Without David as a buffer, she was afraid of what she might accidentally say. "She's scary."

"Yeah," David agreed, opening up the fridge and digging through it. "But she likes you, so the hard part's over. Besides, if you stay here I'll make you help me, and I'll give you all the worst jobs."

"Fine." She stuck her tongue out at him and slipped out of the kitchen.

Cynthia was curled up in an easy chair, drowning in a massive sky-blue afghan and watching a football game. "Kicked you out?" she asked, looking away from the television to smile at her. When Gwen nodded, she laughed and shook her head. "He won't admit it, but Davey hates people watching him cook. I've been banished enough times to be used to it." After a moment, she gestured at the screen. "You have a team?"

"No," Gwen said, watching the colorful players run around the artificially bright green field. "I thought you guys liked hockey, or rugby, or something."

"Davey never told you his father's American, eh?" Cynthia let out a low, appreciative whistle as one of the players . . . did something — Gwen really had no idea how sports worked — and toasted the screen with her glass of water. "He dragged me to games all the time when we were dating. Which makes two good things I got from him," she added coolly, glancing back at the kitchen where they could hear David rattling around and whistling.

She nodded, not sure how to respond. "So . . . do you have a favorite team?"

"No need for small talk. I mean, if you'd feel better going through the whole how's-the-weather chat I'd be happy to, but I'm too old to feel uncomfortable over a little bit of silence." Her eyes crinkled, softening her matter-of-fact tone.

"Oh." Gwen nodded again, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it across her stomach, pretending to be interested in the men running across the field. Talking with David's mom reminded her of working on her novel: the words came out slow and painful like a dripping IV, but there was something oddly rewarding about the experience. Even if the reward was suffocating awkwardness and the desperate urge to flee.

Of course, the game was immediately interrupted by a commercial break, and there was only so invested she could pretend to be in the exciting possibilities of Mr. Clean magic erasers. _Say something, say something interesting, god damn it . . ._

"You're a bit awkward, aren't you, dear?" Cynthia didn't sound mean; in fact, she looked pleased, smiling with a mixture of sympathy and triumph as Gwen squirmed. "I figured, from the way Davey talks about you. He warned me to be nice at least ten times, so I assumed you were either very special or very shy." The look on her face implied that she was still reserving judgment.

"Um . . ." What was she supposed to say to that? "Thank you" hardly seemed appropriate. "I'm . . . not great at talking to people, sorry."

"Good," she said with a laugh. "I don't trust charmers. They're the ones always used to getting their way. I see it all the time at work."

Gwen snatched at the topic like Cynthia had thrown her a lifesaver (which she probably had, actually). "David said you were a librarian?"

"Yes, middle school." The look on her face was wistful, like she missed her job even over the weekend. "They're a handful, but they're good kids."

"That's what David says about our campers," she said, the thought making her smile. She was more of the opinion that they were assholes because being an asshole was fun; their conflicting philosophies had led to more than one late-night argument. "I just wish they didn't light so many things on fire."

She _tch_ 'd, shaking her head. "They want to be taken seriously, but don't know how to tell you yet. Fire's a good way to show they're not messing around."

"Holy shhhhhcow." It wasn't her smoothest recovery, and Cynthia turned to her with raised eyebrows and a knowing smile. "Maybe you should take my job. You'd be better at it."

Cynthia wrinkled her nose. "I wouldn't do that to Davey. Or myself — _you_ don't have to listen to him complain about missing you. I have to deal with that all year, I'm sure not going to ruin both our summers." Gwen laughed, and they both turned their attention back to the television as the game resumed. "So, what do you know about football?"

"Um . . . the big fork-things that stick up in the air are touchdowns, right?"

She shook her head. "Get comfortable, honey. This is gonna take a while."

* * *

"Hi, Gwen!" David beamed at her as she came in, pulling a monstrous loaf of bread from the oven and setting it on the island in the center of the kitchen. "Having fun?"

She looked around the room, which appeared to have been the site of a devastating farmer's market explosion. There were mountains of peels on the countertops, and little jars of spices littered every available surface that wasn't covered with cutting boards and discarded utensils. "Not as much as you, apparently. Hell of a cook, huh?"

"It's relaxing!"

Gwen's idea of cooking was throwing pasta into boiling water and maybe — if she was feeling really creative — putting something other than cheese and melted butter on it. (The look David had given her when he realized that she used salad dressing as marinade for fish had been priceless, like she'd admitted to eating kittens or something.) All of this looked more like a mad science experiment than food, but he swept around the room with none of his usual clumsiness, and there was something oddly peaceful about the chorus of sizzles and gentle clangs, playing percussion to quiet music from the iPod sitting in the docking station on the counter. "What're you making?" she asked, trying to gather from the chaos. "Vegetable . . . cheese . . . something?"

"It's a surprise," he said, tapping her on the nose with the handle of a wooden spoon. "I've never cooked for you before. This is so wonderful!"

"What about s'mores?" She leaned back against the fridge, well out of the way of the frenzy, and crossed her arms. His s'mores involved a lot more preparation than most of Gwen's dinners, and while sometimes they got a little weird (jalapeño-cinnamon wasn't very popular, though Nikki had enjoyed using them as raccoon bait) they were pretty impressive.

"Doesn't count." Pulling out a what looked like a medieval torture device and turning to a giant metal bowl, he added, "I haven't made this since high school! It was Mom's birthday. The, uh, first one after Dad left." His face fell slightly, but he recovered with a quick shake of his head and returned to wrestling dinner. "That didn't end very well — though I learned that you can't cook something twice as fast by turning the oven up twice as hot, so that was exciting — but I think it's going to turn out much better this time! And I'm almost done."

She opened her mouth to reply, but her attention was snagged by the iPod, which was louder where she was now standing.

"' _Learn to lose, it's easier that way. We've paid our dues, but we can't make life pay . . ._ '"

"The fuck?" That was probably the least-David-like thing she'd ever heard, despite the soothing, almost singsong melody. She tapped at the iPod; there was _no way_ Camp Man spent his spare time listening to what sounded like Lullabies by Nietzsche. "Barenaked . . . Ladies?" She glanced up at him, incredulous. "I have so many questions."

"Okay, it's not what it sounds like."

"Really? Because it sounds like some creepy porno band wrote the soundtrack to standing in the rain and crying." As though to punctuate her statement, the song continued with "' _We drink and I bandage your wrists,_ '" and she gestured at the dock. "See?"

David laughed at that, abandoning his food to lean on the island across from her. "It's my mom's favorite band," he explained, picking up the iPod and thumbing through it. "I have all their music."

"I can't believe you listen to actual bands, with emo lyrics and everything," she teased. "I figured it was Farmer's Almanac, maybe the Barney theme song if you're feeling _really_ wild . . ."

"Very funny." He stuck his tongue out at her, handing her the device and returning to his cooking. Gwen tried not to be touched that he'd tacitly given her permission to snoop through his music — it wasn't like _David_ had anything to hide — and scrolled through aimlessly, smiling at the dozens, possibly hundreds, of Barenaked Ladies tracks (many of which had depressing-as-fuck titles, to her amusement). "But I don't mind sad songs. They're comforting."

"' _Was it all lost? No, we never had it . . ._ '" Gwen laughed and said, "Yeah, sounds like real peaceful shit."

"I'm serious! I just — gosh, I don't know . . ." Shaking his head, David ran a hand through his hair, not seeming to notice the streaks of flour his fingers left behind. "It's nice to listen to something like that. It lets you have sad feelings without . . . um, _being_ sad." He frowned, letting out a defeated sigh. "That didn't make sense, did it?"

"Nah, it did. I can give you a whole bunch of shrink talk about why, if that'd that make you feel better?"

He returned to his food, putting the finishing touches on something he wouldn't let her see and sliding it into the oven. "It might," he conceded, washing his hands and giving her a shy grin over his shoulder. "I just don't want you to think I'm totally crazy."

"Oh, no, I do. Just not because of that." He snorted, then let out a little "eep!" of surprise as she hugged him from behind. She rested her chin on his shoulder and murmured, "Lucky for you I think crazy's kinda cute."

David turned his head and kissed the first part of her he could reach — which happened to be her eyebrow. "I know I'm lucky," he said simply.

She was still deciding whether that was sweet or just cheesy when the song ended. "Oh, I love this one!" he exclaimed as a bouncy guitar filled the room, taking her hand and pulling her into a clumsy waltz.

She laughed, trying to pull free from his grip, surprisingly strong despite still being damp. "I don't dance!"

"But you're doing it now!" he said with a smile, humming along as he swept her awkwardly around the kitchen. "' _Struck by lightning sounds pretty frightening, but the chances are so small . . ._ '"

When he wasn't singing that insane camp song, he actually had a nice voice, and she could feel its rumble in his throat and chest. "Wait, is this _another_ song about death?"

"A little bit! But it's romantic."

"Jesus, David!" Giving in, she shook her head and let him lead, concentrating on not tripping over their feet.

"' _But it's a twenty-three four-to-one that you can fall in love by the end of this song —_ '" The clear female voice harmonizing with David's made them both jump, and they sprang apart like they'd been caught naked.

Cynthia shook her head with exaggerated chagrin. "Sorry, kids. You were so cute I didn't want to interrupt, but I can't help singing along to that one." She crossed over to the fridge, taking the pitcher of water and filling her glass. "Carry on."

When she'd left, he coughed awkwardly, shuffling his feet and looking down at the floor. "Guess I kinda forgot where we were . . ."

Gwen nodded with mock seriousness. "The rhythm got'cha, huh?" When he just gave her a blank look, she smirked and stood on her tiptoes, wiping the flour out of his hair. "Swear to God, someday I'm going to get you to watch something that isn't, like, Bob Ross or Mr. Rogers or whatever. Just so you can understand pop culture references."

"What's that?"

For a second she had no idea what he was talking about — first because she was just confused, then because she couldn't believe it. "You've never seen _Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood_?! Red sweater? ' _It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor_ . . .'" She trailed off, awkwardly conducting the halfhearted theme song rendition with her hands. Her face warmed as he tried unsuccessfully to hide a snicker behind a fake cough. "I can't believe this. You're just — and he's so — it makes no _sense!_ "

David shrugged, looking oddly apologetic. "Sorry? I didn't watch a lot of TV growing up."

"Nope. Not good enough." Glancing over her shoulder to make sure they were still alone in the kitchen, she lowered her voice and pointed sternly at him. "The second we get home, we're — actually, we're fucking, but _after_ that we're watching _Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood_. This is so unacceptable."

"Um . . . okay." For a second his expression flashed between amused, embarrassed, and apprehensive, but he recovered and booped his nose against hers with a smile. "We have to watch it if you're this excited!" Taking her hand, he gently pulled her back in the direction of the living room. "Come on," he said. "We have a little while before dinner."

She sighed dramatically, falling into step behind him. "This means I have to be social again, doesn't it?" she muttered.

"Just for a little longer." Pausing in the foyer, he pulled her into a quick hug and kissed her forehead. "You're doing great, Gwen."

"Thanks," she muttered, embarrassed and pleased by the praise. "I better get something awesome for doing all this 'talking and being a normal person' shit."

"You've been very well-behaved," he agreed with a quiet laugh. "What would you like?"

She beamed at him, all wide eyes and innocence. "Why do _I_ have to do all the work? You're smart — you come up with something." With a wink, she slipped past him and into the living room.

Cynthia held up her water glass in greeting, not looking away from the screen. The players were doing . . . something very exciting, if the announcers' voices were any indication. "Everything going all right?"

Gwen knew she was talking about dinner, but she couldn't help but smile as David slunk into the room, sheepishly taking a seat next to her on the couch. "Yeah," she said, turning back to the television and snuggling against his side, "everything's great."

* * *

"Sorry for being so hard on you," Cynthia whispered as she hugged Gwen goodbye. "Just wanted to make sure you were a good kid."

"N-no problem," she replied, biting her lip and smoothing out her dress. "Totally get it."

David, who hadn't overheard his mother's words but could sense Gwen's discomfort, narrowed his eyes. "Mom," he said sternly, like he was back at camp and dealing with Max. "I told you to be nice!"

"I _was_! We had a lovely time together, didn't we?"

Cynthia was a lot like David. Her house was draped in greenery like her small townhouse was a hobbit hole, she radiated with boundless energy, and she got the same light in her eyes when talking about children. But where he was puppylike in his enthusiasm, with warmth so unconditional it veered into gullibility, his mother was far more guarded and sarcastic. She never seemed to fully relax, and while Gwen couldn't tell how much of that was simply due to the presence of a stranger in her home, the casual way she wore her armor, and the way David didn't seem to even register it, grated on Gwen's moldering Psych degree.

She had the feeling that Cynthia Pine had spent a lot of her life taking a lot of shit, and had decided it wouldn't happen again.

"Absolutely," she agreed, reaching over and taking David's hand. "It was a lot of fun."

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly as they headed back to his car.

She nodded, leaning against him as they walked. "Yeah. I like her."

"I'm glad." He kissed her on the temple, opening her door before she could object. "So," he added, holding it open while she begrudgingly climbed into the car, "Mr. Rogers?"

She grinned. "You're gonna bawl your eyes out, Greenwood. You'll love it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, you know what's really awesome? The Barenaked Ladies. And you know how what's really Canadian? The Barenaked Ladies. And you know who's also really Canadian? David's family. This is how I flawlessly shoehorn my favorite things into my stories. But seriously, go listen to those. "Everything Old is New Again" is beautiful, and while "Life, in a Nutshell" is Their Song, there was no way David would voluntarily sing those lyrics in front of another person, so "Odds Are" is Their Backup Song. (The music video's produced by Rooster Teeth, too, so it's perfect in all the ways.)
> 
> Also, I have no idea what David was cooking. R.A. wanted to know too, but . . . uh . . . I'm not a good enough cook to decide. Google something delicious and complicated.


	6. The World's Most Overrated City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David sees Gwen in her natural environment. It . . . doesn't exactly suit her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, do you know R.A. Enbows? She's that awesome person who always betas my garbage and makes it less garbage-y? Well, she's doing that to the sequel, too! She also draws amazing Gwenvid art and amazing other art, and you should totally check her out: http://raenbowsofficial.tumblr.com/ (Hey, new story, new disclaimer, why not?)
> 
> Content warning: this chapter has a scene near the end involving racist, misogynistic, and homophobic slurs (n-, c- and f- words, respectively)

**March 2017**

"Oh thank god you're here!" Gwen dragged David into the foyer, throwing her arms around him and burying her face in the crook of his neck. "Save me from them."

Nudging her head with his until she looked up, he allowed himself the luxury of a single, lingering kiss. "I missed you, too."

She rolled her eyes. "Obviously I missed you, dumbass. If you look at your phone, I left you like thirty messages." Her expression softening, she pecked him on the cheek. "I _am_ happy you're here. Was it a totally shitty drive?"

"Not at all! I listened to three whole years of the Farmer's Almanac!"

"What did music ever _do_ to you, David? At least get some interesting podcasts or something."

"But the Farmer's Almanac _is_ interesting!"

"Who cares about knowing what the weather was like thirty years ago? Gimme your phone." Snatching it from his pocket, she began tapping at it furiously. "Here. Try this on the way home, okay?"

As much as he wanted to devote more attention to Gwen, they were at her parents' house for a reason; and he had to admit, he was curious about where she'd spent her childhood. "This is, ah . . ." Even his considerable positivity quailed in the face of so much brass, glass, and marble. "Big. You grew up here?"

Her parents lived in what they called "a small house outside of the city," but it was only small compared to the average apartment building. It looked like it could easily be on the cover of some sort of lifestyle magazine, but despite the surface-level perfection there was something _wrong_ about how it all fit together, in a way he couldn't quite explain.

"You see what I mean? Tacky as fuck, but never repeat that." The summer they'd first met, she'd described her parents as "typical WASPs, only not white, Anglo-Saxon, or Protestant." David had been baffled by what that meant, but an image was definitely forming in his mind. They passed through the kitchen — blindingly white, shiny steel and copper surfaces reflecting the cold bleached light — and a deep red dining room that could've served as a set for _The Tudors_. "Wait'll you see my old bedroom. You'll probably faint."

He stopped abruptly before they entered the narrow hall that led to the living room, where her parents waited. Keeping his voice low, he said, "Are they going to think I'm too . . . ?"

Gwen smiled reassuringly and kissed him on the cheek. "Don't worry, David. They'll hate you."

"Th-that's not good!" David wasn't a stranger to being disliked, but usually it was because they didn't appreciate his optimism in stressful situations. But knowing he was doomed before he even met them? "What do I do?"

"Nothing." She'd seemed frazzled and taut when she came out to get him, but now that the moment of truth had arrived she was remarkably calm, almost cheerful. "It's just how they are. But I don't think they like me very much either, so it's okay."

It was very much _not_ okay, and if these weren't people he wanted to impress, he'd have some stern words for them. But he let her take his hand and lead him down the beige hallway into a beige living room. There were three men and two women neatly arranged on plush beige furniture, dressed in clothes that looked more expensive than anything David had ever owned. Suddenly he regretted everything he was wearing — something he'd never really felt self-conscious about before, but when Gwen had warned that he should look "nice," he hadn't realized that the word meant suit jackets and ties.

He tugged awkwardly at his bandanna, which he'd grabbed for good luck but now it seemed ridiculous, childish, borderline insane.

Gwen squeezed his elbow reassuringly, and he turned to her with a grateful smile. _It's okay_ , he told himself, taking a deep breath. _Everything will be fine._

Her mother acknowledged them first, rising and offering her hand with a smile that could only be described as . . . beige. She was a beautiful woman, taller than he was (even without the several-inch heels), with long red-purple hair, striking silver eyes, and skin much darker than Gwen's. "Mr. Greenwood," she said, her tone honeyed with the warm professionalism of a job interview. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Valerie." For a second that threw him — was she calling him Valerie? Summoning someone else named Valerie? — before he realized she was introducing herself.

He might've looked like a pauper standing in the middle of an ugly fairytale castle, but he still had manners. "I'm glad to be here!" There was brief, terrifying moment where he wondered if he was expected to kiss her rings. Shooting a slightly panicked look in Gwen's direction, he returned the handshake (at least, he _hoped_ it was a handshake). "Thank you, Valerie. And, um, please call me David."

"Dave!" The other woman in the room gave him a quick half-hug, hooking one arm around his neck. Her dark teal eyes were bright with amusement, though there was a bit of pity in her smile, like she knew exactly how bad this was going to be. "Pretty sure we talked on the phone. I'm Audree — Gwennie's big sister."

"O- _oh!_ Right. Pleasure to meet you in person." Audree had called Gwen the night after Alligator Wrestling Camp, and he'd been so tired he'd picked up, thinking it was his phone. That had led to a long conversation between the sisters about why a strange man was answering for her at one in the morning; from what he'd gathered, the outcome was a lifetime's worth of teasing, at least some of which had to be due to the fact that David answered most of his phone calls with Camp Campbell's motto, something Gwen had informed him was "literally the opposite of what normal people do." He didn't really understand that part — _"Campe diem"_ was good life advice that fit every situation — but he was uncomfortably aware of talking to someone who knew he'd been . . . well, _intimate_ with her baby sister.

Audree turned her attention to Gwen, ruffling her hair, and Valerie gestured at the couch with an elegant sweep of her arm. "These are our sons, Eric and Leon. I'm afraid Gwen's other brothers, Samson and Christopher" — Gwen had prepped him about these two; Chris owned a surf shop and rarely made it back to New York, and Sam had recently moved across the country to join his brother's business. She called them "the fuckups" — "couldn't make it." He waved awkwardly, and they both nodded, looking bored. "And of course, my husband, Harrison," she continued, making space for Gwen's father to step forward.

David was torn between awe and terror. He'd always had a . . . well, fondness for fathers; some of his childhood friends had complained that he seemed at least as interested in following their dads around as spending time with them, and even he had to admit that maybe it was a little unusual. Harrison Santos was a broad-shouldered Hispanic man almost as large as Mr. Campbell, with tiny glasses perched daintily on his nose and a head as smooth and shiny as an apple. He peered down at David through his glasses, which made his dark purple (almost black) eyes seem much larger and more intimidating. After a few moments' evaluation he sighed and held out his hand as well. "Dave. Welcome."

"Th-thank you, Harrison. Oh! _Harrison!"_ His hand involuntarily tightened in the man's grip, a small spasm of pain shooting up his arm from squeezing those iron-hard fingers. He was too excited to care, though. "We have a camper named Harrison! He's a magician who — _ow!_ "

Gwen sidled up next to him and wrapped her arm around his waist, smiling up at him and resting her head against his shoulder. As he looked down at her, puzzled, she pinched his side again and shook her head imperceptibly, but the damage had been done.

"Right, the camp." Valerie's eyebrows shot up, and she gestured to the stiff beige couch. "Why don't you have a seat, David? You must be tired, driving all the way from . . ."

"Canada," Gwen provided quickly. "Near Niagara Falls."

"Oh? It must be nice to have a visa to work in the country." Her mouth quirked up slightly in a half-smirk that David was used to seeing on a younger, more familiar face. "Does it qualify you to take positions other than . . . I'm sorry, I'm not quite sure what you do." Her smile stiffened as she glanced over at Gwen. "Gwendolyn has been rather vague on the details."

Despite the warning pinch, he felt like this was a topic he could carry a conversation about. "I'm one of the counselors at Camp Campbell!"

"Head counselor," Gwen added.

"Well, we don't really have titles like that, and Gwen's just as important, but I suppose I do have a few years' seniority!"

Valerie nodded with a hum of mild interest. "And the rest of the year?"

"Oh, I do a little bit here and there. My favorite job is at the diner —" It occurred to him that they'd likely never set foot in a diner in their life. They probably had all their food made by a personal chef or something. "— but I also really enjoy my work at the retirement home." He shrugged, leaning back against the uncomfortable couch before giving up and straightening again. "Whatever's available, really!"

"Wouldn't it be easier to work full-time somewhere?" Harrison asked, his deep booming baritone instantly intimidating.

David tugged at the comforting worn fabric of his bandanna, feeling like a squeaky-voiced little boy. It was a question he received it on a regular basis, and although this was far more polite than other ways he'd heard it — _"Isn't that an unstable way to live?" "Sure, but when are you going to get a_ real _job?"_ — they all amounted to the same thing. Though he could hardly blame them for being worried, considering he was dating their daughter! They were just being protective, and he was happy they were so concerned for Gwen's well-being.

Unfortunately, none of that meant he had an answer, despite the number of times he'd been asked. "Um . . ."

"Dad," Gwen said, using her "talking to QM" voice: conciliatory, wary, with the barest undertone of _"what the fuck are you doing?"_ "It's a great place to work."

That was a lie, almost audacious coming from her, but she said it so smoothly it knocked him speechless. She didn't look over, but her hand crept into his again, her fingers lacing between his. "It — it is," he agreed weakly. "I guess I've never wanted to be anywhere else."

There was a barely noticeable beat of silence, just long enough to make his skin prickle. "How inspiring," Valerie finally said, cracking the tension before it could create too thick a film over the room. "I hope you'll be a good influence on Gwendolyn. We'd love her to find a career she's so enthusiastic about."

"Sounds pretty _enthusiastic_ about that camp," one of the brothers (Lee?) muttered, continuing to tap at his phone intently. "Or something."

"Yes, she does seem to be," Valerie agreed quietly.

Again silence, again the painful chill. He tightened his fingers around Gwen's and she shifted position slightly, just close enough that her leg and arm were brushing against his. It wasn't surprising that she was in clothes he'd never seen before — aside from the camp uniform, he could count on one hand the number of outfits he _had_ seen before — but there was something strange about seeing her in a dark moss-colored dress that fell just below her knees, her hair pulled back into a low ponytail, gleaming pearls hanging like raindrops from her ears and around her neck, her ankles crossed and her hands in her lap. She looked oddly fragile like this, pretty in a china-doll kind of way (well, she was _always_ pretty, to be fair); if he didn't know better, he'd have a hard time imagining she could wield a guitar like a deadly weapon or rescue the camp from a rampaging platypus.

Then she glanced over at him with a wry smirk and leaned just a bit more into his side, and it was like a filter had fallen away, because she was still there. Grown-up and elegant and strangely stiff, but still _her_.

As the silence spiraled into something bordering on uncomfortable, David realized how closely he was being watched. Not by her siblings — the brothers were still glued to their screens, and Audree appeared to be engaged in a complicated wordless conversation with Gwen — but Valerie and Harrison seemed to be cataloging everything about him, their gaze unpleasantly ticklish like bugs on his skin. He glanced up at them both, Valerie's expression pleasantly blank, Harrison's a bit darker with something furrowing his brows, and he realized with a jolt that they were afraid of him — a thought so insane he had to press his lips together to hold back a startled laugh.

Her parents were _afraid_. Of _him_.

Well, no, that wasn't quite right. They didn't seem scared, not like he was a horror movie monster or something, but distrustful. Suspicious, somehow.

"Anyway, Gwennie's a smart girl," Harrison rumbled, leaning back as though to dismiss the conversation. "She'll make the right decision."

David nodded numbly, unable to speak. Were they afraid Gwen would choose to stay at Camp Campbell . . . for _him?_

He had to violently squash his first response at the thought, which was a shiver of delight that was cruelly selfish — and not even sincere, because he didn't _want_ her to work there forever, not when she had dreams and plans of her own. He wanted nothing more than for her to find something that made her as happy as being a Camp Campbell counselor made him. Even if that meant . . . _whatever_ that meant.

They had nothing to worry about. David would never dream of holding Gwen back.

He wasn't sure how long the conversation continued like that, stilted exchanges that felt oddly like an interview, but by the time Valerie climbed to her feet and announced it was time for dinner, he was starting to worry he'd sweated through his not-quite-nice-enough clothes. Gwen kept him on the couch until everyone had left, pretending to play with her phone (he was close enough to see she was just opening and closing apps aimlessly). As soon as the room was empty, she flung it onto the cushion next to them and threw her legs over his, twisting sideways to rest her cheek on his shoulder and drawing her knees to her chest in a little ball.

"Don't tell them my shoes are on the couch," she muttered into his collar. "Mom'll kill me."

He believed her, and probably should discourage anything that might get her in trouble. But he couldn't help wrapping one arm around her back and the other around her shins, because it'd been too long since he'd last hugged Gwen. "Of course. We don't want that!"

She was cozy, a solid reassuring warmth he wished he could carry with him back home. She was close enough that he felt every flutter of her eyelashes against his neck. It was . . . well, it was incredibly distracting, and he focused his attention instead on the giant yellow painting across the room, of what looked like a woman whose dress was covered in eyes. (It was nice, he supposed.)

Then her lips found the underside of his jaw, and there was no eyeball dress strange enough to capture his attention. "Um, Gwen? Wh-hat are you doing?"

She froze for a second, then kissed him again, the corner of his mouth this time. "I dunno," she replied, sounding small and a little self-conscious. "I missed you."

David had to turn to look at her, it was instinct, impulse, something. He could no more _not_ look at her than teleport to Paris, even though he knew full well that turning toward her was tacit permission, it was the beginning of something that really shouldn't be begun, certainly not now and _certainly_ not here. But he'd live with that, because the alternative was continuing to burn holes in the yellow painting and that was unacceptable, not when there was something so much more deserving of his attention so much closer.

Still, though, he should at least make an effort. "But what abou —" That was as far as he got before her fingers were on his collar and dragging him forward and then he couldn't speak at all, it was all he could do to breathe but that was okay, that was very very very okay, breathing was about all his mind could handle at the moment so it was probably good he didn't try to force it to come up with words.

"It's fine," she breathed, refusing to pull away long enough to really talk, "it's okay — it's fine — we'll stop it's — it's okay." But she'd untied his bandanna and that didn't seem like a great idea, that seemed counterintuitive to stopping and then she'd shifted, turned without breaking from his mouth so he'd hardly noticed what she was doing until she was straddling his lap and that seemed like the exact _opposite_ of stopping, her hands were in his hair and with every gentle tug, every semi-intentional jolt of pain made him feel like stopping might not be an option for very long —

"Thanks, guys. I wasn't using that appetite anyway."

David heard a sickening _crack_ as he whipped his head towards the voice, and for a second the blinding-white pain made him worry he'd broken some integral part of his spine. A worry that fast turned into something resembling hope, because at least then he could go to the hospital instead of having to look Gwen's sister in the face and pretend that he in no way, shape, or form was anything but a perfect gentleman, despite obvious evidence to the contrary.

 _Again_.

Gwen didn't seem at all embarrassed. "Fuck you," she grumbled, climbing to her feet. "You saw the shit we just went through. I deserved a reward."

She just laughed, leaning against the doorframe. "Mom wanted me to make sure you guys were on your way and not, y'know, defiling the living room." She shook her head with a mournful sigh David was almost positive was sarcastic. "I thought you said he was a _nice_ boy, Gwennie."

"I'm sorry!" His face somehow defied logic and got even warmer, and he covered his eyes with one hand, wrapping the other around his chest in a strangely comforting self-hug. He — he _was_ nice! It was just that . . . well, Gwen was . . .

"You have no idea, Audree. He's the fucking _worst_." He looked up to find Gwen smirking at her sister with her arms crossed. "Disgusting, seriously."

His mouth dropped open. This wasn't fair. And after he'd driven all this way! "I — nno I'm — !" When they both started laughing he hid his face again.

Two of them. He wasn't sure he could handle _two_ Gwens.

There was a gentle thump on the cushion next to him, and then Gwen was pulling his hands away. "I'm sorry," she said, still giggling. "You're just so easy."

David sighed, because he couldn't even pretend to stay mad at her. The lightness in her voice — as close to bubbly as she ever got — the way she pecked his cheek (prompting a loud gagging noise from Audree), the way her fingers slid down his wrists until she was holding his hands in hers . . . What was he supposed to do against that? "It's fine," he said, returning the kiss, _"Gwennie."_

"Oh fuck no. You don't call me that ever."

He glanced up at Audree, figuring he needed to say something to get them on proper footing. "You . . . um, look very nice."

Audree laughed. "Oh, he's _adorable_ ," she stage-whispered to her sister. To David she said, "Thanks. I already like you way better than her other boyfriends." Shooting a sly grin over at Gwen, she added, "Took her long enough to find a good one."

"Th-thank you?"

Gwen shoved Audree away, her face bright red. "Okay, okay. We're trying not to scare him, so you can just fuck _right_ off now . . ." Laughing, Audree allowed herself to be pushed out of the living room, winking at David and sticking her tongue out before the door closed. "I'm sorry," Gwen muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose and pacing back and forth. "She's awesome, really, just . . . kind of a bitch. It's a good thing, it means she likes you, but I told her to back off and she's just the worst at it —"

"Gwen?" He put his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to stop and look at him. "I like her. Your family is fine, really. I think this is going well." Panic suddenly seized his chest. "Is there a reason I shouldn't think it's going well?"

"No, no! It's just . . . you know . . ." She glanced around the empty room, dropping her voice even though no one was around. "Listen, I _really_ should've brought this up earlier, but I've kinda told my parents that the camp is this, like, really great place."

"It is!"

She winced. "Right. But they think it's all swanky and . . . _this_." She gestured at the room around them: the marble-and-glass surfaces, the overstuffed velvet furniture, the jade elephant sitting next to a waist-high vase of fake roses.

"Oh . . ." His heart sank as he looked around. Was this what camps were supposed to be?

Like she was reading his mind, she put her hands on either side of his face, turning him to her. "Hey, I'm not embarrassed of Camp Campbell. _You_ definitely shouldn't be. But it's just . . . Christ, they already want me to find a full-time job in the city, and they think upstate is full of rednecks and axe murderers. The last thing they need to think is I'm going to the summer camp where Jason killed everyone." She must have seen something in his face that she didn't like, because for a second she looked like she was going to cry. "I'm sorry, I know this is really selfish, but if you could just . . . you know, avoid mentioning things about money. Or plumbing. Or really the facilities in general."

David sighed and kissed her nose. "Of course." He wanted her parents to be happy, after all.

"Or the Quartermaster!" she added quickly. " _Definitely_ don't bring him up."

"Right." He wondered if he should be keeping track. Would it be weird to take notes?

But dinner was fine, even without notes. He spent a great deal of it fielding questions about his jobs and family, which he'd expected; of course they'd want to get to know him, it was flattering really. Sometimes their words grated, just a bit — more than once it seemed like he was being used to scold Gwen, and the few times he'd brought up how wonderful she was, it was almost dismissed — but nobody's family was perfect, and he bit his tongue (literally, once or twice) and smiled. Because first impressions were important, and he wanted to make a good one.

He'd been seated next to Audree, which was a relief. There was something about her that reminded him of his mother in the way she swooped in and rescued him from thorny questions, and especially in the way she looked after Gwen. He wondered if Gwen was aware of how closely her big sister paid attention, barely a few sentences going by without her sharp gaze darting over to where she was sitting. It warmed him, knowing there was someone watching over her so intently. It scared him as well, but he was used to being a little nervous where Gwen was concerned.

Apparently it was an inherited trait.

Unlike Gwen, Audree loved children. "Wait, she wears _elf ears?_ Oh my god, _please_ tell me you knew Gwennie used to dress up as an elf for like every Halloween as a kid. Until she discovered vampires, she was in love with that blond one, you know from the movies?" She leaned past him, tapping Gwen on the shoulder. "Hey, who was that elf guy you had posters of all over your room?"

"Legolas?" she replied automatically, then snapped her mouth shut like she could swallow the words back. "What're you telling him?" Before she could answer, Gwen's focus had redirected to David. "Is she being an asshole? She's not being an asshole, right?"

He hesitated. On the one hand, telling embarrassing stories about her childhood almost certainly constituted "being an asshole" by nearly all definitions. On the other hand . . . "N-not at all! She's been very nice, really."

Maybe it was unkind to lie, but he wanted to learn more about her. And he suspected Gwen wouldn't happily let him hear stories about the way she'd used to cry at the end of every episode of _X-Men: The Animated Series_ because she wanted to know what happened next.

Once Gwen's attention had been recaptured by her mother, Audree leaned in closer and whispered, "Okay, so you know she writes, yeah? She's been doing that since she was like, seven, she was a really smart kid. And she's got binders, the really thick ones you know, and they're just _full_ of these little stories she's been writing since she was little. I'm pretty sure they're in her bedroom upstairs. I'm not _saying_ you should go look through them because they're really cute and hilarious, but —"

"Audree?" her father said, and with an apologetic shrug and one upheld finger she turned to answer his question — something about the judicial ramifications of President Trump's . . . something, it went over his head almost immediately.

To his right, one of her brothers was having a discussion with Gwen in a low voice. "I'm just looking out for you," he said. "Don't want you making more mistakes, right?"

She was holding her glass of water, but her hands were shaking enough to make the ice rattle. "Stop _helping_ ," she growled through clenched teeth, and the bite in her voice nearly made David want to flinch away.

Her brother didn't seem intimidated, though. "Come _on_ , Gwen. We allll know you're smart —" he rolled his eyes, "— but don't pretend you're some great judge of character. Remember Damien?"

The other brother leaned in as well, the table quieting and everyone's attention turning to the conversation as it heated up. David rested his hand over Gwen's, steadying her glass and lowering it to the table. Without looking at him, she twisted her wrist so her hand was lying palm-up on the table and linked her fingers through his. "Eric, why don't you just _ask_ him?" Leaning back in his chair so he was grinning at David, he said, "So Dave, why d'you wanna work at a kids' summer camp anyway?"

He could feel her fingers trembling against his, but he smiled. "Well, I grew up there. It's like a second home to me, I guess!"

Eric frowned. "Gotta be kinda _weird_ , though, being up there all alone with those kids. Isn't it _weird_ not having anyone your own age to talk to?"

"Not really! The campers are a lot of fun. Besides, I'm never really alone. I have Gwen!" He beamed at her, though his smile faded as she continued glaring at her brothers.

"See?" Leon turned to Eric with a smirk. "What're you worrying for? There's nothing _weird_ about it."

"Shut the fuck up, Lee," Gwen snapped, pushing her chair back from the table.

Valerie frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line. "We don't talk like that in front of company."

"You're fucking kidding, right? Didn't you _hear_ them?! Is _that_ how we talk in front of goddamn company?"

"God, Gwen, calm down," Eric grumbled, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, it was just a joke _,_ " Leon added, getting up so he could clap David on the back. "Dave doesn't mind, does he?"

He glanced from the brothers to Gwen, then finally to Audree, who just shrugged apologetically. "I . . . no, I don't think so?"

"There we go!" Leon said with a pleased nod, squeezing David's shoulder like he'd answered correctly. "No harm done."

Before any of them could do anything — and for a second he was worried Gwen would throw her plate at one of them — Audree leaned forward. "Hey, didn't you need to get back home and take out Platypus? I remember you saying you'd have to leave early."

She froze, and he could practically feel her willing herself calm. "Yeah, you're right," she agreed. "And you're probably tired from the drive, David?" She smiled at him, and he wondered if it was at all convincing to her family, or if they could see the way the muscles were tight and strained and her eyes were pleading, the way her hand had tightened its grip on his until her knuckles were white.

He wondered if any of them ever looked at her that closely.

"I am," he said, climbing to his feet. "It, um, was a pleasure to meet all of you."

"Yeah," Lee said, grinning wide, and Eric snorted. "Sorry our sister's fucking crazy."

" _Leon,_ company," Valerie admonished, standing and walking them to the front door. When they were alone in the foyer, she placed her hands on her daughter's shoulders, smoothing the wrinkles out of her dress. "I'll call you later this week," she said, and though it sounded like something his own mother would say, something about it felt _wrong_ , in that same unnameable way that the house felt wrong, and her brothers' questions felt wrong, and everything since he'd stepped out of his car this morning had felt wrong.

Gwen replied with a stony nod, refusing to let go of his hand, and Valerie turned to him.

"I'm sorry about this evening, David. I'm afraid things got a bit out of hand, but — well, I suppose you've become used to that by now."

"I — it's fine?"

She nodded, glancing between them. "Have a good night, you two."

The second the door closed Gwen ripped her hand from his, wrapping her arms across her chest and twisting away from him. For a moment they just stood in the chill night mist, glowing in the yellow lights of the house.

Before he could ask what was wrong she took a few steps down the driveway, pausing without looking up. "Sorry," she muttered.

"Why?" He walked toward her — slowly, like she was going to run away — and put a tentative hand between her shoulder blades. His stomach twisted as she flinched, hunching her shoulders and ducking her head.

"For having the shittiest family ever? For making you drive all the way down here just to be treated like that? For being f-fucking cra —" She cut off with a choked noise, and he couldn't stop himself from pulling her into a hug, ignoring her tiny squeak of protest and burying his face in her hair with a sigh of relief.

 _Finally_.

Why had it taken so long to get to this, when it was the only thing he'd wanted to do since before he'd even gotten in the car?

Like a flower unfurling, she returned the embrace, tightening her grip around his waist until it hurt and settling more comfortably against his chest. "I hate them sometimes," she said, her voice muffled.

"I . . . don't really blame you." He wanted to apologize immediately, because it wasn't a nice thing to say about her family, but the small huff of strained laughter he got in response was worth it.

"Okay, okay," she said, pulling back with a sigh. "I'm freezing my ass off in this dress, and I wanna get the hell out of here."

He couldn't argue with that.

* * *

"Where to?" They'd been driving for about ten minutes, in the general direction of "away from that fucking house" with a brief stop at a nearby McDonald's to make up for the meal neither of them had finished. David had wanted to give her plenty of time to recover before pestering her for directions, but they'd reached the point where he had to take an exit or begin a journey to Delaware, and while he'd never _been_ to Delaware and it seemed like an exciting experience . . . "Gwen?"

She glanced back from the window with a small jolt, turning to him. "What? Oh, fuck. Sorry." She took his phone and typed in the address, cutting short the April 7th, 1993 podcast that had been playing. (As interesting as he found all episodes of the _Farmer's Almanac_ , the ones after he'd been born seemed especially so. All of the things he hadn't noticed that were happening right under his nose!) As the digital voice told him to take the next exit, she repeated, "Sorry. I was just thinking about . . . you know."

"Your brothers?" Maybe it was a mistake to bring them up, now that the magic of low-priced grease and salt had lifted the mood slightly, but it'd been on his mind as well. "They really bothered you, didn't they?" (He immediately felt stupid, because of course they had. That was why they were here, eating french fries out of a paper bag and watching the city around them light up.)

Gwen didn't make fun of him. She shrugged and muttered, "I didn't like they way they were talking about you. You — it's shitty to talk about _anyone_ like that, but you're — I mean, you love the camp and — fuck, I dunno." Her shoulders slumped. "You didn't deserve it."

"About that . . ." David had a feeling he wouldn't like the answer to this question, but it'd been bothering him the entire drive. "What, uh . . . what _were_ they saying, exactly?"

She hesitated, crinkling the edges of the bag. "I mean, it was just all that stuff about, you know, working at a summer camp. They think it's weird you'd choose to do that as, like, a job."

"Well, I guess that makes sense." He'd heard it before, and considering how highly her family valued their careers, he wasn't especially surprised or offended that they thought he was a little weird. Heck, maybe he _was_ a little weird.

Gwen made a face he couldn't read, and unfortunately he had to focus on the road so he couldn't get a better look. "No. It's . . ." She sighed. "They don't get why you'd want to work there unless there were reasons. Like, _bad_ reasons."

It was like she'd dumped a glass of ice water on him, his stomach tightening into frozen knots and an unpleasant chill skating across his skin. "Th-they don't _seriously_ think —"

"No. I mean, not really. They just . . ." She punched the glove compartment, gasping in surprise as it fell open. "They're such _assholes_ ," she growled. Slamming the glove compartment shut, she crossed her arms over her chest and glared out the passenger window.

He didn't know how to respond. The idea that her family, that _anyone_ would think such a thing, was so awful he wanted to . . . he didn't know what he wanted to do, but high on the list was vomiting up his recently-acquired dinner. (Just below that were a series of shamefully violent acts.) But that wasn't her fault, and she'd stood up for him against her own family. It was a very brave and kind thing to do.

And he suspected she wasn't sitting in silence right then feeling brave or kind.

"I'm sorry," she finally said, and he wasn't sure whether to be happy to be proven right — because he _did_ know her well — or disappointed that she'd feel the need to apologize to him.

David didn't look away from the road, but he wanted to so badly it hurt. "Nope," he replied, shaking his head.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her turn toward him. "You don't get to _decide_ I'm not sorry, David."

He shrugged. "But I just did."

She snorted, and after a moment put her hand on his knee. The tiny brush of normal, that flash of intimacy, felt so familiar and at the same time took his breath away. "Can I be sorry on behalf of my shitty family?" He shook his head, and her laugh was as warm as the soft weight of her hand. "You run a tight ship, jeez."

"I'm a camp counselor. I have to be firm." For a few minutes they just watched the city crawl by, listening to Siri's quiet voice direct him through the maze of streets. "Thank you."

"For what?"

He smiled. "For caring about me enough to get angry."

* * *

"Welcome to . . . this." Gwen sighed as he pulled up to the dark brick apartment building. "Just, you know, try not to — I told you there were roaches, right?"

That _had_ been something making David a bit nervous. Not that he didn't like bugs, but . . . "It's fine, really."

"Okay." She let out a shaky exhale, shaking her head. "I don't know why I'm nervous, I . . . whatever, it's just so I don't have to live with my parents." She had to wiggle the doorknob to open it; the frame swelled in damp weather and got stuck, she explained, shoving hard against the wood with her shoulder. "But I guess that's good, because sometimes the lock doesn't work."

That was a little alarming, but he tried to push away the thought of her sleeping in an apartment building that had no locks. Gwen was tough — much tougher than she looked. She'd be fine.

Inside was dark and damp, but relatively clean. As she led him up to the third floor, though, one of the doors along the stairwell opened and an old woman stuck her head out. "Ms. Santos!"

Gwen flinched, turning to the stranger with a nervous grin. "Yeah, Mrs. Fillmore?"

The woman didn't return the smile (though he didn't know how anyone could be immune; it'd been almost 5 years and he still wasn't used to it). If anything, the lines on her face deepened. "She's _at it_ again."

"Great." Gwen groaned, running the hand that wasn't holding David's across her face. "Listen, I'll talk to her, but I can't —"

"I'll call the cops!"

"I'm sorry, I'll . . . see what I can do. Goodnight." Practically dragging him away, she hurried up the stairs, unlocking the door to her apartment with a sigh of exasperation. "Goddammit, Claire, open a fucking window or something. She yelled at me again!"

A long-legged blonde was sprawled across the couch, a very-familiar setup on their coffee table coughing foul smoke through the living room. She sat up, grinning at them as they entered. "Filly? Awww, invite her up next time. I'd share." She giggled, climbing up and giving Gwen a quick one-armed hug before doing the same to David. "She could probably use one, huh?" Suddenly she blinked, taking him in slowly. "I don't know you."

Gwen sighed, shaking her head. "Claire, this is my boyfriend David. I told you he'd be visiting for a couple days?" When Claire gave them both a blank, red-eyed stare, Gwen added, "Never mind, Claire-bear." Gently edging him away from the couch and toward a half-open door, she muttered, "She has no memory like this. You'll probably have to tell her who you are like three times. Anyway, here's my room."

It took David a minute to absorb her bedroom; he was still glowing from the fact that she called him her boyfriend, and the cutesy nickname she gave her roommate. Aside from the brief, stress-filled interactions with her sister, it was the first glimpse of something truly _domestic,_ something that looked and felt like a home.

But that warm feeling faded rather quickly as he looked around. "Um . . ."

He could tell by the painstaking way everything was lined up that Gwen had tried very hard to keep things neat. The problem was that the bedroom was barely wide enough to fit her mattress (no bed frame; even if she could afford one, this room was too small) and only about twice as long, which meant that there simply wasn't enough space for . . . well, for anything. Brightly colored sheets were draped around the room to create a warm tent-like atmosphere, but he could see through the cracks in the fabric that the walls were stained with water damage and had wallpaper peeling off in long, graying strips. The floor — or at least the path through piles of books and boxes — was warped wood that wobbled under his feet and scraped at his heels, a dangerous threat of splinters.

However, he didn't see any cockroaches at the moment. That was good.

Gwen cringed, tugging her hair out of her ponytail and avoiding his eyes. "Sorry, I should've gotten you a hotel or something, this is —"

"I think it's cute!" She gave him a disbelieving look, but he was almost surprised to find he meant it. He had to smile at what she'd done to try and make it cozy. "I like the fairy lights."

She shook her head. "Yeah, well, the overhead light isn't connected to anything, so we had to get creative."

"It _is_ creative!"

"All right, Christ. It's not like I turned this place into the fucking Taj Mahal or anything." Shuffling uncomfortably (he winced at how her feet must feel on that rough floor), she sidled a little closer to him, directing his attention to the strings of multicolored paper animals that served as the window's curtains. "Remember that one time you did Origami Camp?" she asked, with the reluctant smile he'd come to love, the one she wasn't even aware of and would be embarrassed to have pointed out to her. "It took me forever to remember how to make all the shapes, and I kept singing that awful song you made up for the cranes."

David chuckled, feeling like he had to keep quiet in a room where the walls were so close. "'Fold the paper into four small squares . . .'"

She slapped her hand over his mouth with a laugh. "No! Don't get it stuck in my head, you asshole!"

And there it was. The first real glimpse of a happy, carefree Gwen, the one he selfishly considered _his_. She had so many different faces, and they were all wonderful parts of her, but when she let her head fall against his shoulder, her laughter tapering off into a content sigh, he felt like he'd been granted access to something precious and rare.

There was no amount of veiled insults from her family, miles of driving, or armies of bugs that would make him miss this.

"Sorry it isn't, you know, much." Her voice was muffled against his collarbone, the puff of warm air making him shiver.

He pushed her back, tilting her chin up so he could meet her gaze. "It's fine, Gwen. I _want_ to be here."

She smirked, her fingers skating up the collar of his shirt and lacing behind his head. "Well, I don't fucking know why." He was about to protest when she tugged him closer. And, well, it was hard to remember what he'd wanted to say when she was looking at him like that, with eyes that big and bright and close. "But I feel like I really owe you one." Her eyebrow quirked up, a move she could never do on purpose but accidentally managed from time to time. "Or, you know, more than one."

It took him a moment to follow her train of thought, and when he did he couldn't help but blush. He needed a minute to collect himself, so he shut his eyes, trying to pretend she wasn't watching him with a distinctly wolfish expression that made him feel small and helpless. "I . . . ah." He swallowed, embarrassed. Why was he always so _uncool?_ "Th-that's — I mean, I don't want you to feel like you owe me anything, Gwen."

His eyes were closed, so the brush of her mouth against his was a surprise; he jerked back automatically (being uncool _again_ ) but she wouldn't let him, pressing forward until he was crowded back against her desk with nowhere to go — not that he wanted to go anywhere, but she was very close and very pretty and it'd been a long time since she'd kissed him like this, with _intent_ , and even though he knew it was ridiculous his first instinct was to shift away, to keep her from realizing the effect she had on him because it felt rude, ungentlemanly. But the way her hands crept up into his hair and took hold, the slippery-silky feel of her dress under his fingers, the take-no-prisoners intensity with which she slotted her leg between his and ground _hard_ . . .

None of that left much room for being a gentleman.

"Hh _haa_ -hh." The sigh was involuntarily, and if he wasn't already busy he'd hide his face, because it was mortifying how easily unraveled he was, how little it took to make him melt into a useless, twitching puddle of goo. But the regret was short-lived, just long enough for her to take a sharp inhale and dig her nails in and breathe " _Christ_ , David" in a voice already hoarse and shaky, and he was rapidly running out of room in his mind for embarrassment to take root. So instead he asked, "What, um, what do you — you know, want?"

She pulled back a few inches, unbearably far but it let him see her smirk so it was worth it. "Something I'd never expect from you."

That . . . _hmm_. Gwen knew him well, knew him from head to toe, and he wasn't exactly unpredictable even when his mind was operating at full capacity. To shock her, even momentarily, seemed impossible.

But then the tinny sound of the living-room television cut through his hazy thoughts, and he pushed her away gingerly. "One second," he said with a smile, slipping out of the room (careful to leave the door open) and padding over to where Claire was sprawled out in front of the TV. "Hey!" He tried to sound as bright and cheery as normal, leaning over the back of the couch. "Could I . . . ?"

She was a little slow to catch up to his words, but after a few blank seconds she sat up, brushing her limp yellow hair out of her face. "Oh, fuck yeah, sure. Go'head." She handed him the pretty turquoise pipe and lighter.

It'd been a while, almost a year, but David's fingers operated from muscle memory. The hit was small, both for the sake of his out-of-practice lungs and courtesy. Besides, the gesture was the important thing. "Thank you, Claire." He carefully returned the pipe, watching to make sure she didn't drop it or burn herself. "Have a nice evening!"

The look on Gwen's face when he returned was absolutely perfect. "What the fuck was _that?"_ she demanded, and he had approximately two seconds to worry she was angry before she was fumbling at his shirt, trying to untuck it and unbutton it at the same time. "Where'd you learn to do that shit?"

"M-my friend Julia —" She wasn't making it easy to talk, cupping a hand around the back of his neck and dragging him close, "she, ah, told me — it was v-very good for aahhhnxiety . . ." And that was enough explanation for the time being, he figured, settling his hands on her hips and letting himself fall back against the wall, gravity pulling her flush against him.

"Fuck." She laughed, nipping at his bottom lip, and for a second he had to remind himself how to breathe. "Okay, yeah, you won. _Jesus."_

David had to admit, he enjoyed catching her off-guard.

"Muack."

They froze, his mind spinning to remember why that sound was so familiar. Then it came again, down by their feet, and she pulled away with a groan. "God _damn_ it. I forgot to take him out."

"Muack." Platypus was sitting on a small stack of books, his head cocked to the side and his beady black eyes narrowed. "Muack."

"Hey, buddy!" David's leg was bouncing rapidly, and he was trying very hard to relax some of the tension in his jaw and shoulders, but he was surprised by how much he'd missed the little guy. Especially since he hadn't been fond of their new mascot at first, considering what'd happened to poor Larry. He knelt down, holding out his hand. "How's it going?" After a few seconds of wary observation, Platypus let him stroke his head, then turned to Gwen with an expression he almost swore was impatience.

"Muack."

Gwen sighed. "I know, I know. Come on, asshole." David started to straighten, adjusting himself as well as he could, and she frowned. "I didn't mean you. No point in both of us being cold and miserable. I'll be back in like ten minutes."

For someone who so often called him an idiot, she could be dense sometimes. "I came to visit _you_ ," he explained, picking up his jacket from where it had been tossed onto a pile of books — rather hastily, and he felt a small pang of guilt for not having taken better care of it. But he'd been . . . distracted. "Of course I'd like to join you! If you don't mind," he hurried to add, because maybe she'd been looking forward to some time to herself, to be alone with her thoughts or nature or —

Before he'd finished shrugging into his coat, she'd ducked under his arms and wrapped herself around him, and for a second he had to marvel that this was the same woman who'd told him on the day they met that she never, _ever_ hugged, and who'd instituted a No Touching rule shortly thereafter (that he wasn't always good at following, but he tried his best). "You jackass," she mumbled, pecking him just under his jaw and pulling away to search for a leash. "All right, fucker, let's go for a walk! Do you wanna go-go for a _walk_? A fun walk with Gwennie and David, who only wanna kill you a little bit? Just a little bit wish you were dead?" Her voice was high and cheery, a talking-to-babies voice, and the difference between her words and her tone, and _Gwennie_ , and the way she put her hands on her knees and bent down to rile the animal up — Platypus wasn't a dog, but he did put his feet on her shins in the most astoundingly puppy-like way — something about all of it was too ridiculous not to laugh at, though he tried to disguise it as a cough. She looked over at him with a smirk, and it was hard to tell when she was blushing because her skin was so dark but he was pretty sure her face was a little pinker than usual. " _Yes_ , David?" she asked with exaggerated nonchalance, slipping the harness over Platypus' neck. "You have a problem with the way I talk to my pussy?"

And goodness, that shouldn't be funny, it was crude and immature and he was supposed to be more grown-up than that, but he had to press his lips together and look away. "Nno, y-you're fine, tha-at's —" His voice cracked like he was a teenager and that was the last straw, he burst out laughing and before he could stop himself his knees buckled, depositing him on the tiny sliver of uncovered floor.

For a second she stared down at him, then she grinned and plopped down next to him. "I think you're hurting his feelings," she teased, picking Platypus up and settling him in her lap, scratching under his chin. "I don't see what's so funny, anyway."

"I-I'm sorry." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, pressing the back of one hand against his mouth to steady himself. "I wasn't making fun of you, I promise, it was j-just . . ." Gosh, he hadn't laughed like this in months, this kind of helpless giggling, this bubbles in his chest fluttering in his throat giddy stupid _joy_ , and trying to keep it from escaping was a physical effort.

Gwen wasn't helping — though of course she wouldn't. "Just so you know, call me Gwennie and I will not hesitate to kick your ass."

"Only your sister and Platypus get to?" It was difficult to maintain a pout while laughing, though, and she just rolled her eyes and kissed his cheek.

"All right. Time to go." She helped him to his feet and snuggled against his side, leaning against him as they returned through the skunk-smelling living room ( _that_ wasn't a fragrance he'd missed, or a taste) and out into the chilly night air. "New York at its finest," she said sarcastically with a dramatic sweep of her arm. And he knew what she was indicating, what she expected him to notice: the rundown graffitied buildings, the dingy gray snow that clogged the gutters, the cars that kicked up muddy sprays onto the sidewalk.

But he'd spent a long time training his eyes to see other things. And with the streetlights creating misty orange halos, the dizzying way the buildings stretched up and away from them in both directions, the way the dampness reflected the artificial light, light that made everything from the sky to the sidewalk look like it was glowing . . . it was easy to direct his focus away from the rest. "I think it's pretty." When she gave a disbelieving snort, pausing to tug Platypus away from the discarded newspaper he was trying to eat, he shrugged and added, "I mean, in a haunting way. Melancholy or . . . or something."

"Poetic." She smirked and he felt his face warm. Admittedly he _may_ have borrowed a poetry anthology from the library because Gwen had mentioned reading it in college. And he _might_ have found it a peaceful way to finish a hike, reading poems in the middle of the woods. And he was positive that if she knew any of that she'd make fun of him, so he just shrugged again and they continued walking.

There weren't many people out in this weather — or so Gwen said. It still seemed like a lot to him, and he huddled close to her side to avoid being run over by the intermittently crushing current. He was both relieved and disappointed by how disinterested everyone was; no one stopped to ask why there was a leashed platypus plodding along the damp sidewalk, he received mumbled apologies when someone bumped his shoulder, and not _once_ did anyone shout "Hey, I'm walking here!" in a thick New York accent.

That was, until a short-haired man with a worn jean jacket shoved through them, pushing them apart with an irritated grunt and continuing on his way. Gwen stumbled, tripping over Platypus and slapping her palm against the damp brick of a nearby stoop to keep from falling.

"Fucking great job, asshole," she snapped, in a tone loud enough to catch the attention of the man, who looked her over with a curled lip.

"Go back where you came from, nigger bitch."

Gwen's jaw tightened and she glared at him for a few seconds, but then she dropped her gaze to Platypus, tugging gently at his leash to encourage him further down the road. David was frozen to the sidewalk, glancing back and forth between his girlfriend and this stranger, this man who'd said something so . . . he'd _never_ heard that word, not in real life, and to say it to _Gwen_ , it was awful to say to anyone but to Gwen of all people . . .

"E-excuse me!" The man had been about to walk away but turned back at David's voice, the look on his face almost gratified, like he'd hoped to be stopped. Before he could lose his nerve David continued, "You . . . you can't say that!"

The man took a couple steps closer, and David swallowed, resisting the urge to back up. His eyes darted over to Gwen and he said, "Did I insult your beard, faggot?"

David wasn't positive what that first part meant, but he was uncomfortably familiar with last word. Trying to summon everything he admired about Mr. Campbell, he lifted his chin and stared the man down. "I don't care what you call me," he said, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets because while he could keep his voice level, he couldn't hide the way his hands were shaking, "but you _will not talk to her like that."_

"Is that a threat?" He gave both of them a disbelieving grunt. "I could rip you in half, you fucking freak."

Gwen grabbed the cuff of David's jacket, tugging on it insistently and muttering, "Don't, seriously David, this guy could be nuts _shut the fuck up_ —"

He wanted to listen to her, he always did, and it was true that this man was much larger than he was. But there was this sick twist of anger in his gut, one that spread trembling heat through his limbs and made him want to throw up, and he didn't know what to do with the very not-peaceful thoughts and emotions roiling inside his body but he had to do something, say something, _anything,_ because it'd been an incredibly long day and he'd had to watch Gwen take so much abuse and he'd run out of patience for it, for sitting back and letting it happen and he'd be nice about it but he was _giving someone a piece of his mind_ , goddamn it.

"Listen, you're — you're acting like a child —" he wasn't, David couldn't think of a single child who would treat anyone the way this man had spoken to them, not even Nurf, not even Max, "— and you owe my girlfriend an apology. So . . ." And maybe it was petty to add that, for the warm flush of jealous pleasure at the way the stranger's eyes widened just slightly, but it took a bit of the edge off the anger, and that was good, that helped him feel a bit less fluttery and feverish. "Do. It."

" _Listen_ , if your cunt has something to say she should open her goddamned mouth for something besides other guys' dicks —"

David wasn't entirely sure his brain was in charge of what happened, if his hand came out of its pocket of its own volition and cracked against the man's cheek or if some part of his mind had actually ordered it to; he just knew he had to stop the flood of hateful words, and it wasn't what he wanted — he wanted aggressive pacifism but this felt decidedly non-pacifist, there was blood on his knuckles and blood on the sidewalk and a stream of incoherent damp-sounding obscenities pouring from the bleeding man and David was on fire, he was warm and buzzing and lightheaded. And he was stepping forward, reaching out for the man's collar and he wasn't sure what the plan was except that he wanted that apology, but then Gwen's hand was in his and she was hauling him back and they were sprinting, she'd picked up Platypus and was leading him through a mess of side streets and alleys until he had no idea where they were or where they were going, not stopping until they were behind what he recognized was her apartment building.

The air cooled as they stood outside, panting. The fire rushing under his skin was burning out, and what remained was shame, a cold and congealed lump in his chest. Gwen's head was hanging, she was bent over double with her hands on her knees and Platypus snuffling in the snow by the back fence. Her hair fell in messy wisps around her face, blowing up and out with each ragged exhale, and he remembered with another ashamed pang that Gwen _hated_ running, and she wouldn't have had to if he'd just listened to her and shut up . . .

A quiet choked noise cut through his thoughts, and he knelt down in front of her, reaching forward to cup her cheek with his unbloodied hand. "Goodness, Gwen, I'm so sorry, I never should've done that especially not in front of you, it was violent and childish and I . . . oh please, Gwen, _please_ don't cry."

She brushed his hand away, looking up at him finally. " _Jesus_ , David!" That was as far as she got before breaking into laughter again, tilting forward until her head was against his shoulder. "You could've gotten us fucking ax-murdered, you crazy son of a bitch!"

"That . . . that's not a very nice thing to say about my mom." It wasn't the brightest reply, but it was the first thing that popped into his head.

She shook her head at him, still giggling; she was convinced her laugh was horrifying, but he could listen to it all day. "God, you have no survival skills, do you?" She stood, helping him to his feet. "Promise me you'll never live in a big city on your own, okay?"

He was about to protest that he had _plenty_ of skills, and had demonstrated them more than once in Wilderness Survival Camp, but was distracted by the implication of her question, though he wasn't sure if it'd been intentional or not. "O-okay! I won't." He averted his gaze and added, "I . . . might end up in a city someday, though. You never know."

"Really?" Gwen glanced at him. "Make sure you have someone to watch your back, then." And he hadn't imagined it; even he wasn't optimistic enough to assume she was offering to move in with him or anything, but she'd thought about it. Like maybe there'd be a time when they could, someday. "Come on," she continued, weaving through the partially-shoveled "backyard" (though he couldn't tell if there was any grass in the small rectangle between buildings) to the back door. "I don't think that dick would've followed us, but Greg might be wandering around again."

"Greg?"

She groaned, settling Platypus on one hip like a baby as she fumbled with her keys. "This guy I dated for like five minutes a year ago, ish. _Real_ intense, wouldn't go away, you know? Claire mentioned she might've seen him in the neighborhood. I think he checks up on me sometimes." She shuddered, ushering him into the baking warmth of the building. "Pretty sure he's harmless, but it's still creepy as fuck."

"Creepy as fuck" seemed like an understatement. David didn't really like using that kind of language, but he thought accurately describing the situation required a lot more of it. "Are you okay? Do — do you need . . ."

"David, don't worry about it, really." Gwen took his uninjured hand, squeezing it gently and setting Platypus on the ground so he could clamber up the stairs, his belly dragging across the carpet. "The city's full of douchebags. And my family's . . . you know, that's just who they are. Don't get me wrong, this was a bad fucking day, but it's not like shit like this hasn't happened before. I mean, I've never _punched_ anyone and broke my hand . . ." She eyed it with a frown. "We should get that fixed up, by the way."

Back in the apartment, with Claire drowsing on the couch and Platypus curled up in the bathtub, Gwen settled him on her bed and sat cross-legged across from him, patching up his hand. And there was something about it, how she carefully inspected each knuckle and wrapped the bandages with a deft but gentle touch that was almost automatic at this point, the way they were in a poorly-ventilated wooden room that smelled dimly of smoke (admittedly not the same _kind_ of smoke, but still) — something about it all reminded him of camp.

"Can't believe I'm doing this again," she muttered with a small smile. "I'm not even getting paid."

"I'm sorry." He flushed, ashamed again. "I really shouldn't have — I know it was wrong of me, but I just — I just _couldn't_ —"

"Thank you." She finished patching him up and gently kissed his knuckles.

It took him a second to mentally change tracks. "For . . . for what?"

She snuggled into his lap, looping her arms over his shoulders and giving him a shy smile that made his heartbeat stutter. "For caring about me enough to get angry."

* * *

David couldn't sleep.

It wasn't unusual, not really — he couldn't quite remember the last time he'd slept fully through the night, though he suspected it'd been the last time he'd had Gwen with him — and her apartment was brighter and louder than either the camp or his home, with lights and sounds he wasn't used to. And he was more than content to lay here, smushed against the cool wall (covered by a thin, brightly-colored sheet), curled around Gwen like a parenthesis with her hair tickling his nose and her skin under his fingertips. Under most other circumstances, staying awake like this would be one of the best ways he could imagine to pass the time.

Tonight, though. Tonight he couldn't stop _thinking_. And the events of the day didn't lend themselves to very pleasant thoughts.

He was upset for himself, a bit — though the knowledge that he had people in his life who would be much angrier on his behalf blunted the sting. (He was a little terrified of what would happen if Gwen's family ever met his mother.) Mostly he was just unhappy that a place like this existed, people like this existed. Families who would look at their children with cold eyes and strangers who would fling such hurtful things and landlords who would charge more than most people could afford for an apartment that was practically falling apart and men who'd follow their exes long after breaking up.

David had always considered himself lucky, almost abundantly so, but he'd never so strongly felt the heart-squeezing feeling of good fortune. Because he was loved, he was more or less respected, and somehow Gwen, one of the most deserving people he could ever imagine of all those things . . . wasn't.

What else was just a daily reality for people he cared about? How much worse did it _get?_

Suddenly the ambient noise of cars and voices and things he couldn't place was joined by another sound, smaller and much closer. He froze, keeping his breathing even, and a few seconds later heard it again: a sniff, a hitched breath, a damp exhale. He had to close his eyes, nuzzling against the back of her neck in a way he hoped she'd assume was in his sleep. She froze for a second, but when he didn't say anything she sniffled again, a little quieter this time. Like she didn't want him to wake up.

Honestly, David was a little relieved, because he didn't know what he'd say. He couldn't tell her everything was fine, because it _wasn't_. Nothing about this was fine, and he was usually pretty good at pretending things were okay when they weren't but he just didn't have the energy. It was all he could do to keep his own breathing even and level, his own eyes dry, his own hands steady.

David had never really considered himself helpless. Gwen sometimes said he was — usually with affectionate exasperation — but he knew how to take care of himself. He knew how to take care of his campers, his friends, his mom. He'd thought he knew how to take care of Gwen.

He didn't.

He didn't know how to make things better. He didn't know how to make her family appreciate her, how to make employers realize how lucky they'd be to have her quick mind and sharp eye, how to make people on the street be nice, how to whisk her away to somewhere safe where only people who made her feel loved were allowed. He didn't even know how to keep her from crying in the middle of the night.

Ever since he'd met her, David had wondered how someone could go through life smiling as little as Gwen did.

Now he thought it was amazing she was able to smile at all.

* * *

"How dare you show up while I'm not there?! You couldn't have waited three more weeks to get laid? For shame, Davey. For shame."

David lowered the volume on his phone, even though the odds of him being overheard on the floor of Gwen's kitchen were fairly small. His face warming, he dropped his voice to a whisper. "I-It's not — I didn't — I wanted — _Julia!_ "

She laughed, and David realized with a pang that it'd been too long since they'd talked. Even though she lived in the city, even though they'd been friends since he was 9 years old, even though she was practically his sister, her job kept pulling her away, across the country or off the continent. And he hadn't kept in touch as well as he should've. "Of all the fucking times, you asshole. You just _had_ to wait until I was in kangaroo country, didn't you?"

"I'm sorry."

He could practically hear her eye roll. "I know you are. That's why I hate being mad at you, it never _sticks_. You're just so damn sorry about everything."

"S- . . . sorry?"

"Whatever, you'll make it up to me. But it's gotta be, what, 3 a.m. over there? Why aren't you all cuddled up sleeping — or, y'know, _not_ sleeping — with your girlfriend? The girlfriend I _still_ haven't met somehow, even though you insist I'll love her, and I've had to ask your mom of all people to tell me what she's like. The girlfriend I can't even stalk on social media because you won't let me know her full name, because you're a bad friend."

David sighed, settling back against the wall and stretching his legs out in front of him. He'd gotten this guilt trip before, and while he did feel bad that Julia and Gwen hadn't met, it wasn't like the three of them were ever in the same place at the same time. And when he and Gwen _were_ together . . . well, he hated to admit it, but he didn't exactly want to share her. "Her last name is Santos," he said.

"Wait, really?" There was a frenzied rustling on the other end of the line, distant clacking of keys. "Holy shit, she's so _pretty_. You never said she was pretty! She's a nerd too?! Davey, what the fuck? I'm your sister, you're supposed to share this information with me."

"I definitely told you both those things."

Julia made a dismissive noise. "Yeah, but I didn't _believe_ you. You think everyone's great." Another second of silence. "Christ, she's way outta your league."

"Thanks, Jules." Not that it wasn't true, but who was being a bad friend now?

She was quiet, and he knew she was scrolling through Gwen's Facebook. "Okay. One, I love her, she's hilarious. Two, if that's her sister in most of these pictures, fucking _wow_. And three . . . seriously, David. What's going on?" Her voice softened. "Why're you out here with me?"

"I, uh, wanted to talk to someone." He told her everything, and though he tried to soften it a bit — the last thing he needed was his best friend going on some sort of blood feud against everyone in the city — he could hear her getting more and more angry.

Not that he could blame her. It took way too much effort to keep his own voice from shaking, especially when he reached the encounter in the street.

"You fucking _didn't_ , Sunshine!"

"He was mean," he replied lamely, feeling his face heat up. "I wanted him to stop talking."

Julia was laughing almost too hard to speak. "Jesus, I can't believe you. When'd you become _cool_ , Davey?"

He thought that was a little unfair, but instead of arguing he asked the question that'd been twisting and roiling in his chest for hours. "Julia, is . . . is this just what _happens_? Have you — have you ever —"

"Oh _god_ yeah. All the time." The immediate, casual nature of her response hurt. Another thing he'd had no idea about. "Once I was called a cock-sucking dyke. I thought that was creative. Made no sense, but creative."

David couldn't bring himself to laugh with her. "So this is just . . . ?"

"Hate to break it you, but guys are jerks. It's kind of a _thing_. So, you know, hope you're not planning on punching every jackass who yells something stupid at people you love, because even you need to sleep sometimes."

He stared at the floor. There was a crack in the kitchen's baseboard, and he wondered if that was where some of the roaches came from. He wondered if Gwen had thought about setting up traps there. "Oh." He sounded smaller than he'd meant to.

"That fucking _family_ , though." The humor bled out of Julia's voice. "Can't believe you didn't hit any of them. I would've."

He shrugged, leaning his head back against the wall and watching the ceiling fan rotate slowly; even though it was freezing in the small apartment, Gwen said the fans wouldn't turn off, not even when the lights were out. "Well, they're her family. It's not like I could be rude to them. I'll have to — I mean, if . . . if Gwen and I, you know, if we're — not like I'm assuming anything, of course, but . . ."

"David, I'm pretty sure that was the beginning of like twelve sentences. Wanna finish one of 'em?"

He wasn't — wasn't good at talking about things like this. "If we're, you know, together. For a while, wh-whatever that means. I'll have to see them at least _sometimes,_ and —" He was going to say that it'd be better if they didn't hate him, but remembered that that was a battle he'd already lost. "I don't wanna make things even harder for her."

"But . . . like, that's something to think about. If you two are in it for the long haul, then you'll have to keep dealing with these fuckers. You have to think about whether that's worth it. After this week you get to go back to Canada — _without hanging out with me,_ not that I care or anything — but they're gonna get harder to run away from the more _together_ you are. Right now, it's kinda a clean break. I'm not saying you should dump her," she added quickly, as his mouth was opening to object, "but it's something to think about, that's all. Whether that's something you can handle, or want to handle, or whatever." She paused, then added in a rush, "I mean, I've never met a girl I thought was worth dealing with a family like that. And I've dated some pretty awesome people."

David wasn't sure how to take that. Julia had always been eager to help — sometimes a little too eager, but always coming from a good place. And she was the smartest person he knew, except maybe Gwen. But . . . "I think she is, though."

"Knew you'd say that." Her voice was smug and a little sad. "You really love her, huh?"

He nearly choked on air. "We . . . we're, uh, not saying that yet."

There was a moment of heavy silence. Then she repeated, "So you love her, right?"

"Jules, _please!_ It's too — we haven't been together very — we're not —"

"Red, I'm gonna ask this one more time: _so you love her, right?_ "

David groaned, running a hand through his hair. He hated how she'd always done this for as long as he'd known her, latched onto some theory with singleminded tenacity and refused to let up until he agreed. "Y- . . . yes, I think so."

He hated how she'd always do this, because she was always _right_.

"Shit, now I really gotta meet her." She was quiet for a moment, letting him bask in the weird blend of terror and happiness that'd leeched into his chest, the fluttery rush that felt like accepting his job as a Camp Campbell counselor, or graduating high school. That mix of "I never thought I'd be here" and "so what now?" — and goodness, he'd _really_ never thought he'd be here.

On the floor of his girlfriend's kitchen. The girlfriend he was in love with.

The girlfriend who scared the living heck out of him.

"Hmm?" He realized Julia'd been talking, and he pushed aside his own feelings with a small spike of guilt. "What was that, sorry?"

"I asked how mad Gwen would be if you punched anyone in her family. Because _apparently_ I can't trust you not to beat assholes up."

He blushed, covering his eyes with his free hand even though there was no one around to see him. "N-no, I'd never — !" He swallowed and added, "Besides, they're all . . . intimidating."

"They'd kick your ass, wouldn't they?"

David coughed. "A little bit."

Julia snickered. "That sounds more like my Davey."

"Besides, maybe we got off on the wrong foot, but I'm sure things will get better! After all, her sister's really nice. You'd like her a lot."

"I want you to hear how very much I doubt that. Is it coming across in my voice?"

He heard a faint rustling from the direction of the bedrooms; he couldn't see them, since he was tucked behind the peninsula countertop that separated the kitchen and living rooms, but there were definitely footsteps shuffling across the carpet. "I, uh, I think I have to go. I'll call you later, okay?"

"Whenever, Sunshine," Julia said. Her voice softened. "Try not to freak out, okay? It'll be all right, I promise."

The words David wished he could say to Gwen. "I-I know," he lied. "Goodnight."

Gwen's head appeared over the peninsula just as he tucked his phone away. For a second she just looked at him, and he wondered how ridiculous he seemed, sitting on the floor in the dark with his knees drawn up to his chest. "Is this gonna happen every time we visit each other?" It was too dim to see her face, and her voice was light but just a bit strained, almost convincing but not quite. "Because I can put a chair out here." He shook his head and she took a seat next to him, curling up into his side. "At least you decided to talk to someone this time," she said, resting her cheek on his shoulder; not for the first time — heck, not for the first time this evening — David had to stop and just . . . take a moment.

Because this didn't make sense, not really. The fact that he was here, _here_ , in her apartment with his arm around her shoulders and he could kiss her if he wanted, she wouldn't mind, she might even welcome it . . . that didn't make any sense. She was — she was _Gwen_. Beautiful, and strong, and ferocious, and perfect, and he was just . . . himself. And he didn't know what he was doing right, how he seemed to amuse her or keep her interest but the fact that he did was so remarkable, so breathtakingly lovely that it almost knocked silent the little voice that whispered he didn't deserve to be here.

Sometimes he thought this was an elaborate delusion borne from having wanted this for so long. But no, his mind wasn't creative enough to come up with anything this good. And there was no sense in worrying, anyway. No matter what, he was very lucky right now, and he wouldn't let himself ruin that with pointless worries.

"So," Gwen murmured, tracing her fingers down his arm absently. "Your friend Julia, huh?"

"Yeah, she's in Australia so . . ." He trailed off. It sounded like a dumb excuse even to him.

"I'm just glad you weren't out here moping all by yourself. I don't like thinking about you here all sad and lonely."

_Neither do I._

After a moment she asked, tracing the dingy linoleum with one toe, "How come you've never told me about her? Before tonight, I mean." She didn't sound jealous, or hurt. Just genuinely curious.

He shrugged, feeling stupid. "She never came up." She didn't dignify that with a response. David sighed and took a deep breath. "We met at camp when I was little."

"Oh?" And he could tell what she was thinking: _That doesn't sound so bad_. (She considered herself so mysterious and hard to read, but honestly she was kind of obvious. It was cute.) She had a point, too. David had never avoided talking about his time as a Camp Campbell camper — talked about it too much, Gwen sometimes claimed.

But . . . well, there was a difference between sharing stories about Mr. Campbell or the Order of the Sparrow and . . . "You remember hearing about that one camper who drowned in Lake Lilac?" He'd brought it up exactly once, when giving Gwen her new counselor orientation; it was the reason for the campers' strictly enforced curfew, why they had to get up in the middle of the night to make sure everyone was in bed. "So, uh, his name was Jasper. We . . . Julia and I were really good friends with him." He picked at a loose thread in his pants with his free hand. "We all met on the first day, and spent a lot of time together, about 4 years, I think?" He couldn't remember, exactly. And that realization, being forced to go back and count the years between his first summer with Jasp and his last, filled him with a chest-constricting panic that made him wonder if Claire had left her bowl out in the living room.

"Oh." Gwen exhaled slowly, long and loud like a tire losing air. "You guys were kinda like the Problem Children, huh?"

"Yeah, actually," he agreed with a laugh. "I-I mean, _I_ wasn't, but Jasper and Julia were . . . they were a little wild. Though —"

David cut himself off.

She didn't need to know that.

Nobody needed to know that.

But Gwen was smart. And she had that Psychology degree, so . . . "You and Jasper were really close, weren't you?" The tone of her voice, soft and sad and just the tiniest bit pitying, said what she didn't.

"We —" David had to stop and clear his throat, because for some silly reason he was having trouble talking. "We were just friends, but I . . . don't know if — if we would've stayed that way." He certainly hadn't wanted to.

"Fuck." She was quiet for a moment, then started talking almost too fast for him to understand. " _Shit_ , David, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to bring up all this shit, like it wasn't a fucking bad enough day already, it's fine, we don't have to talk about it anymore _fuck_ I'm sorry —"

This had been the exact thing he'd wanted to avoid.

David wrapped his other arm around her, and it was a bit of an awkward hug but it was a hug and it was Gwen and it was hugging Gwen, so he wasn't complaining. And it seemed to calm her down; at least she quieted, leaning against his chest and playing with the hem of his sleeve. "It's really okay. It was a long time ago, and it's probably good to talk about it sometimes." At least, that was what Kennedy always said . . . but she didn't need to know about Kennedy yet. Tonight had been difficult enough; everything about Gwen's life was hard enough. She didn't need to deal with his sadness on top of all of that.

Besides, he really was very lucky! He didn't have any reason to be sad. And he definitely didn't have any reason to burden her with his problems. She deserved better than that from him.

She deserved better than that, _period._

* * *

The next morning they were just sitting down to breakfast (sans Claire, who Gwen assured him wouldn't be awake for another several hours) when her phone went off. The confused frown on her face evaporated his appetite. "Is everything okay?"

What was left to go wrong, at this point?

"It's . . . my brother." His stomach twisted and she quickly added, "Not them, Samson. One of the fuckups?" She tapped the phone and held it out in front of her. "Sammy? What're you doing?"

"Hi to you too, Gwennie." David couldn't see the screen, but her brother's voice was deep and rich in a way that reminded him of Mr. Campbell, though without the same level of showmanship. "Audree told me you had dinner with the fam, and I wanted to make sure they didn't scare the new guy too bad. He there? I should threaten to kick his ass, do the whole big brother thing."

She rolled her eyes and scooted closer to David, angling the phone so they were both in view. "Be nice. He's had a shitty visit so far."

Samson looked a little like Gwen, if he squinted. They had a similar face shape but he was much darker, more like Audree, and he had their father's eyes, with curly green-black hair that he kept clipped out of his face with a barrette. Despite that (or perhaps in part because of it), David was absolutely convinced that a fight would not end well for him — no threat needed.

Still, his smile had the same infectious sparkliness Gwen's did, though the lines around his eyes suggested he smiled a lot more than his younger sister. "Hey! Dave, right? Auds gave me a briefing, but you know how she gets, I stopped fucking listening after a while . . ." He rolled his eyes with a dramatic sigh. "Having a good time in the world's most overrated city?"

David glanced over at Gwen, trying not to let his smile twist into a smirk. The family resemblance was . . . a bit uncanny, was all. Samson was a bit intimidating, the same kind of sharp that kept him in awe (and slight fear) of Gwen, but he mustered his brightest grin and said, "Oh no, it's been lovely!" When this earned him identical incredulous stares, he gave Gwen a sidelong glance and added, "Though, w-well, I mean . . ." He sighed, enjoying with a small pang of guilt the nervous stare boring into his cheek, and continued, "I keep learning that everyone in New York is allowed to call her Gwennie . . . except me."

She shoved his shoulder, causing the camera to give a nauseating jerk. "You _prick_ ," she said. "You scared the shit out of me!"

He just beamed at her, shrugging.

"Come on!" Samson shook his head, laughing. "You won't let him call you Gwennie? It's cute."

"Does your wife call you Sammy? That something you wanna hear from the person you're fucking?"

There was a moment of contemplative silence. "Well, got me there. Sorry, Dave."

After they'd hung up and Gwen had returned to her side of the table, she mumbled a shy "Sorry about that" to the counter. "He's, y'know, protective."

"Not at all!" Someone had to be, after all. "He seems nice."

"Yeah. He used to live a couple stops away. I'd babysit his kids sometimes when I couldn't find work. He's actually the oldest of my brothers, twins with Leon, but you probably noticed they're pretty different." She shrugged. "It's . . . uh, it's been kinda lonely since he moved away. Not that Audree isn't — she's great, but she works a lot, I dunno, never mind . . ." Trailing off, she stirred her cereal self-consciously. After a few quiet seconds she glanced up, giving him a wan smile. "Bet you don't wish you had siblings anymore though, huh? This trip cured you of that one?"

"N-nno, not exactly." He almost wished _she_ didn't, or at least not so many. But that wasn't nice; they were her family, after all! And family was important, even if they were a bit difficult. "I'm glad you have people who are there for you."

She watched him for a few seconds, her expression difficult to read. Then she reached over and laced her fingers through his. "Yeah," she said, squeezing his hand. "Me too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAN this fucker's long! But it took forever to write, so I guess it balances out? As usual, there are some things I'm not thrilled with, mostly David's characterization (I don't write him very often, and I'm worried he seems out of character), so feedback regarding that is especially appreciated!
> 
> Quartermaster supplied and got rid of the alligators. The counselors decided they didn't want to know anything about it.
> 
> Julia was created by HopefullyPessmistic for her story, Finding a Family (http://archiveofourown.org/works/9500063), and she let me steal this beautiful woman and fling her into my fic. She also donated some of the dialogue, so if there was a line here you especially loved, odds are Hope had something to do with it. She was also the one who came up with the idea of David self-medicating with weed for anxiety, and I kind of fell in love with it because he's such a secret bad boy. :)


	7. Cradle and All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have been . . . weird since David visited. Like a veil's fallen that really should've stayed up.
> 
> Like it's just a matter of time before things all go to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, do you know [R.A. Enbows](http://raenbowsofficial.tumblr.com/)? She's that awesome person who always betas my garbage and makes it less garbage-y? Well, she's doing that to the sequel, too! She also draws amazing Gwenvid art and amazing other art, and you should totally check her out. (Hey, new story, new disclaimer, why not?)
> 
> Also the chapter title comes from me staring in irritation at this chapter until I gave up and decided to name it after the [Ani DiFranco song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xOPDmykrp_w) I kept listening to while writing this. It's literally the most Gwen song I've ever heard, and it's amazing. I know that's like literally most cliche thing you can do, but oh well. Sometimes I need to indulge in my inner teenage girl.

**April 2017**

"It's your birthdayyyyyy! You can't say you're just gonna do _nothing!"_

Gwen glanced up at Claire with a frown. She'd sort of assumed the ripped tank top and oversized boxers — as well as the fact that she was curled up in bed surrounded by two family-sized bags of Cheetos — spoke for her. "Right, but I just did."

Claire maneuvered the chaotic bedroom, plopping down on the foot of the bed (nearly squashing Platypus, who'd taken shelter under a pile of blankets). "But you're _twenty-seven!"_

"That's not an important year, Claire-bear. No one gives a shit about 27. Besides, I have work tomorrow."

She dismissed the thought with a wave. "It's a Thursday night, work doesn't matter." Her face turned serious, the kind of doe-eyed earnestness that reminded her painfully of David. "You've been moping ever since he left, Gwen. I _just_ got used to seeing you happy."

Gwen rolled her eyes, trying not to be touched by her roommate's concern. "He didn't die," she muttered, "he went back home. It's fine. We're talking tonight." For like five minutes, because he had work. And that was fine, they'd planned for that, she knew he had to work himself ragged to live on his camp counselor's salary.

It didn't bother her.

"Come onnnn, Santa. Please let us take you out?" She pouted, and it was irritatingly adorable; Claire was a porcelain doll, all delicate features and fragile vulnerability that made it almost impossible to say no to her. (She never had to pay for things. It was so unfair.)

But _fuck_ , Gwen hated socializing. "Maybe," she finally said, pulling her computer into her lap and pointedly turning her attention to Tumblr. "I'll check with David."

* * *

"I think it's a great idea!"

Gwen sighed. Of _course_ he did. Not that he was the kind of guy who'd forbid her to go even if he didn't want her to, but that'd been her last possible excuse. "Are you sure? New York's dangerous, and I'll be drinking." She paused meaningfully. "Could be risky."

There was just the briefest hesitation. "I'm sure you'll be fine!" Another tiny pause, then David added, "You have Claire and Ana going with you, right?"

"Yeah." Not that she expected her roommates to be much help in an attempted kidnapping scenario, but if this stupid celebration bullshit was inevitable, she didn't want him worrying all night. He might accidentally get distracted and kill one of the people at the retirement home or something. "It'll be fine, I just don't wanna."

She couldn't see him, of course, but she could piece together an image: it was a Thursday afternoon, so he was probably getting ready to start his shift at the diner. Which meant he was dressed in his uniform: an ugly yellow polo and pale-green apron over his usual shorts, with the camp bandanna tied around his neck. He liked to walk when the weather was nice, and since she could hear the sounds of traffic and voices in the background she assumed he was on his way there now, bopping along through his storybook town with his goofy bounding gait.

He was smiling, of course he was smiling. He was almost always smiling.

"Well, it _is_ your birthday, so you can do whatever you want! But . . . I don't want you to be lonely." Some of the brightness dropped out of his voice. "I'm sorry I won't be there."

Gwen snorted. "That's fucking stupid. It's just a day. You visited like two weeks ago, and you didn't even have to do that. It's _fine_." It was as much a reminder to herself as to him, because as selfish and unreasonable as it was to be disappointed, she couldn't help but feel a small pang that the one person she really wanted to see wouldn't be around.

 _God, the_ one _person you wanna see? Melodramatic much?_

Besides, he'd gotten her a present, even though they hadn't been dating long enough to warrant it. Sure, she'd given him a dorky green plaid Snuggie for his birthday, but that was a joke more than a real gift, because it was December and fit the whole weird nature-hipster vibe he had going on. (Okay, so he'd teared up and as far as she knew wore it more than any reasonable person should, but that was just how David _was_ ; she could've gotten him a $1 keychain and he would've had the same reaction.) The highlighter-pink butterfly knife he'd given her in return, besides being the single most _David_ gift she could imagine — because what the fuck was she supposed to do with a giant-ass knife in the middle of Brooklyn? Was it in case an impromptu camping trip broke out on the subway? — was way nicer than she deserved.

"I think you'll have a lot of fun, Gwen. You should think about it." And the way he said it was so sincere and eager that she knew she _had_ to go, because she couldn't let him down.

"I'm not promising anything," she said with a groan, kicking herself free of the mass of rumpled sheets that buried her bed and stumbling over to the closet. "Christ, now I have to find something to wear." She started rummaging through her closet, putting her phone on speaker so she could hunt. "We're looking for something that says 'I'm hot enough to be tagged in Facebook photos' but also 'if you try to touch me I'll rip your face off and use it as a cocktail umbrella.'"

David laughed, and the sound was like a burst of sunlight. "Just make sure you're safe! You have that knife —"

"What d'you think I'm using to cut off their faces?" Gwen snagged one of her what seemed like thousands of variations on the little black dress (god, she had a lot of slutwear, didn't she? Amazing how half her closet had become irrelevant now that she'd had a steady boyfriend for more than 6 months), a high-waisted flared miniskirt and a lacy black crop top. Sleeveless, but it went up to her neck and there was only a thin strip of midriff to worry about, so while it was a little light for the weather, it wasn't like she'd be spending much time outside. "There we go. Nice and skanky." She snorted and rolled her eyes, setting it aside and diving back into the mess for shoes. "I better not have to buy a single drink tonight, because I'm gonna look awesome."

"You're always beautiful!" She didn't respond, focused on finding a pair of heels that wouldn't make her want to chop her feet off by the end of the night, and after a few moments he asked, "Um . . . if — if you don't mind . . ."

"Hmm?" Gwen leaned back, inclining her ear toward the phone. David's voice had dropped, and she could barely hear him inside the closet.

"Nothing! I was . . . just wondering . . ." He chuckled awkwardly, and she could practically see him fidgeting with his bandanna. The dork. "If, well, before you go out, if you wouldn't mind t-taking a picture . . . of you, uh, all dressed up?"

Her mind filled in the blanks easily; she'd had enough practice speaking David to be pretty good at translating. "You fucking perv," she said with a laugh, grinning at his despairing squeak.

"I didn't — ! I mean, you don't ha-ave to, it's fine. Never mind." He sounded ridiculously bashful, and the image of him leaning against a streetlight or wall, bright red and stammering, was so vivid she felt a squeeze of something like homesickness constrict her chest, so intense it made her eyes sting.

"It's . . . hey, no problem, David." She cleared her throat, shaking her head to clear it. "If there's one thing I do well, it's take a hot selfie."

"You do lots of things well!"

For some reason the words, and the cheerful confidence with which he said them, made her wince. Which was obviously fucking stupid; she should just be happy someone was dumb enough to think that highly of her. "Go to work, you loser. You'll get in trouble if you're late, and I've got shit to do." She didn't, but she didn't want to be on the phone anymore either.

"Oh. Um, okay, of course!" He sounded just the tiniest bit off, just a pitch or two below his normal levels of happy, and she felt like a jackass for bumming him out like that. Why did she always have to bring the mood down with her whining? "Have a nice evening!"

"Y- . . ." Gwen paused, squeezing her eyes shut for a second and swallowing hard. "Yeah. You too. Bye."

She let the phone drop to the floor and returned to her bed.

* * *

An hour in and Gwen was convinced she should've stayed in bed. Three hours in, she started to wonder if she'd ever see her bed again.

It was around midnight, as she was considering abandoning her roommates to their own devices, that she felt a hand on her hip. It was large and warm, and for half a second she leaned into it before remembering that David was 6 hours away. "Hey." She kept her voice neutral because it was hard to tell who was just a normal creep and who was a "it puts the lotion on its skin" kinda creep, but she firmly took the stranger's wrist and plucked his hand off of her. "I have a boyfriend, but thanks."

As soon as she'd dropped his arm, shoving it toward him like pushing a boat away from the dock at camp, there was another on her shoulder, turning her to face him. He was cute, she supposed, in a very "my dad's a Republican" way, which wasn't her type: big and broad, dressed in artfully-distressed jeans, boat shoes, and a lilac button-down that matched his hair — hair that actually reminded her a little of David's, but that was where the similarities ended. This stranger was tan and muscled, with well-cared-for, uncalloused hands and thick square nails that weren't bitten short and ragged. There was none of David's nervous fluttery energy; she had a feeling this guy would never appear at the breakfast table with his shirt on inside-out because he was just too excited about starting the day to check his clothes.

He also might be an octopus. Gwen couldn't get far enough away to get a good look at his arms, but every time she moved one off of her another appeared — on her waist, in her hair, at her elbow, dangerously close to her ass. It seemed like way too many hands for one person.

"Wanna dance?" he asked, steamrollering over her. "Your boyfriend won't mind you dancing, right? We'll just dance as friends." Gwen opened her mouth to reply, but his hand planted on the small of her back in what seemed like a very un _friend_ ly way. "You can't say no to making a new friend, right?"

"Hey." The voice came from behind her, deep enough to rumble in her chest, and the next thing she knew there was yet another hand on her, pulling her against his side. "Thought I'd lost you, babe." The stranger pecked her on top of the head, a quick kiss and a squeeze around her shoulders, then turned to the lavender bro and said, "See ya around" before dragging her toward the bar.

She wriggled free of the heavy arm constricting her neck. "The fuck're you _doing?"_

He smirked, leaning against the bar and ordering with just the lift of two fingers. "Saving you from that guy." He shrugged, gesturing to the stool next to him. "Never done the fake-boyfriend thing before, but I figured you'd appreciate being rescued."

Gwen paused. On the one hand, she'd most certainly wanted to get away, and there was something strangely romantic about someone swooping in and pretending to be her boyfriend like that. On the other hand, she was now with _another_ total stranger, one who was showing no signs of helping her get a ride home, or find her friends, or . . . well, anything she'd expect from someone truly interested in aiding a drunk woman in distress. Things, she realized with a pang, David would do in a heartbeat. "Listen, that was . . . uh, nice of you, but I —"

"Have a boyfriend. I heard," he replied, sounding bored. As two beers were set in front of him, he pushed one of them in her direction without looking over. "They're craft, local. Only shit worth drinking." He glanced at her sideways, a dismissive flick of his eyes before returning to the dance floor. "Everywhere else serves cheap manufactured shit thinking the sorority girls buying it on their daddy's credit card are too dumb or wasted to know the difference. No offense."

She bristled, taking the drink. It tasted exactly like every other mediocre beer she'd had in a club, but she tried to look vaguely impressed, like she knew what he was talking about. "I'm twenty-seven," she muttered into the bottle. "I'm not a sorority girl. Not dumb either," she added belatedly, wincing at her own painful lack of cool. Not that it mattered if some douchebag with a bad haircut and thick-rimmed glasses thought she was cool, but it was . . . kind of a habit at this point, to try and prove herself.

"Huh. You seemed like the type, with that whole —" He gestured at her vaguely, "hot bimbo look. Trying to recapture the glory days?"

"No. I was never into that kinda thing." And she didn't know why she felt compelled to keep talking, except that something about being underestimated by this guy felt strangely familiar, and it really, _really_ bothered her. "My friends dragged me here."

"Some friends." He snorted. "But yeah, same. Roommate's bachelor party. I've been reading out of protest." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn paperback copy of _Breakfast of Champions._ "Vonnegut. Recommendation: read the book, don't watch the movie."

Swoon. There was a part of Gwen that was very susceptible to this, a guy reading in a bar, noticing she was in distress and sweeping her away, all condescending half-compliments and a weird inexplicable magnetism.

He was her _type_ , definitely. And yet . . .

She glanced away, biting back a giggle. Because the first thing that entered her mind was David's voice, concerned and alarmed and unintentionally devastating: _"He shouldn't read in a place like this! He'll strain his eyes!"_ And the image of David, walking up to this stranger and accidentally ruining his bad-boy-intellectual persona by offering the flashlight he always kept on his keyring . . . well, it was ridiculous.

Almost as ridiculous as trying to read in the middle of a club. "I wrote my thesis on American satire." (Okay, no she hadn't, but "I took a class on it once" didn't sound as good. And for whatever stupid reason, she wanted to sound good.) "So _thanks,_ I'll take that under consideration."

Gwen wasn't sure if she'd said that to make him leave or prolong the conversation, so she didn't know how to feel when his eyebrows flicked up, impressed. "No kidding? Did you notice how the story's structure mirrors the emptiness of human existe —"

"Sure did," she grumbled, taking another sip of her syrupy beer and trying to figure out what she was still doing in this conversation. She wasn't enjoying herself, and wasn't that the entire fucking point of a birthday? "Listen, thanks for the beer and everything, but . . ."

"The boyfriend." He rolled his eyes, leaning against the bar with a dramatic sigh. "You know, you're really not my type. I haven't been flirting with you at all, in fact." He peered at her over his thick glasses, a shock of floppy black hair falling into his reddish eyes. "Maybe _I'm_ not the one you keep reminding."

"I —" That wasn't fair, she'd only mentioned David once. And what kind of arrogant jerk assumed someone was into them mid-rejection? But something about his tone of voice, his indifferent confidence despite being completely wrong, was oddly attractive. Like she'd been here before.

Like she'd be here again.

He was _familiar_ , that was the thing. Almost comforting, the way Camp Campbell was comforting in its predictable shittiness. It wasn't new, it wasn't scary. If she kept flirting with him she could more or less see where it'd go — plus or minus the random fluttering hope that _this_ one would work out, that she could change him, that she could save him. That he could save her.

He leaned in, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears, a move she'd considered romantic up until this second. But if he was bothered by the way she jerked away he didn't show it, taking a sip from his beer with a bored shrug. "Just seems like you wouldn't be here talking to me if you were happy." He glanced at her sideways. "Let me guess, he's _really nice."_

The way he said that, sneered it like it was something to be embarrassed about, made her skin prickle. "Fuck off," she snarled, pushing away from the bar finally.

"Knew it." And he was so smug, in a way she would've melted for this time last year but now made her seriously tempted to deck him. "Some friendly advice, not-sorority girl: consider finding someone you deserve." He set his drink down, cupped her cheek with one hand. "Why waste a nice guy's time?"

And like he'd choreographed it his mouth was on hers before she could respond, and first she was just shocked but then she felt sick because _he was right_ , he was an unwashed prick too stupid to know it was a bad idea to try and read in a dimly-lit bar but he'd nailed her relationship to the detail. He was wrong about the conclusion — he wanted her to think she was too good for David but it was the opposite, David was too good for _her._

And . . . now he knew it.

David had visited her home, he'd met her family and seen her life and gotten front-row seats to what a disaster she was, so much of a mess she couldn't even make people _related_ to her love her, and he knew how much work she'd be — and all of that was two weeks ago but for those two weeks she'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop, to pick up the phone and hear "maybe you shouldn't come back to camp this summer." Every time he had to work or call Julia or visit his mom it felt like an excuse to avoid her.

But that wasn't fair. If anything she was avoiding him: letting texts go unanswered, not picking up the phone immediately, looking for shifts when she knew he was free because if he couldn't talk to her he couldn't leave her. It was dumb, it was crazy and dumb and cruel but she was scared okay, guys like David scared her and guys who read in bars didn't. She wasn't afraid of guys who kissed her like they knew they were good at it, kissed her like they owned her instead of shaking from nerves or want or whatever it was that made David fall apart when she touched him. She wasn't afraid of guys who liked to watch her scramble to impress them because they were prepared to be disappointed, they looked forward to it because it proved them right, they didn't have expectations for her to fall short of they didn't put her on a pedestal they didn't have a look in their eyes, like she was special and beautiful and worthwhile, that she was so afraid to lose it kept her up at night. She didn't have to be afraid of guys who looked down on her because she knew what she was getting, and so did they: they expected an insecure defensive girl who sometimes cried for no reason and sometimes couldn't force herself out of bed, and so she didn't have to lie and pretend to keep it together, because if she did those things she wasn't letting them down, she was just doing what they expected and they'd respond the way _she_ expected and nobody was unpleasantly surprised.

And if she was going to fail David, if eventually he'd just come to see what her parents did and her brothers did and Campbell did and everyone who'd ever dated her did . . . then what _was_ the point in wasting his time?

"See what I mean?" he whispered, pulling back just far enough to move his lips. His breath smelled like beer with an undertone of cigarette smoke, acrid and familiar. One hand traced up her thigh, stopping at the hem of her skirt.

She smiled, because she did.

* * *

"Gwen?" Audree's voice was bleary, sleep-sluggish; of course it was, Gwen was on her doorstep at one in the morning and Audree worked insane hours, she was a professional, she didn't have time for stupid childish relationship bullshit.

But here she was, shivering in the unseasonably cold weather with her numb lips nearly kissing a small black intercom. Because she didn't have any close friends and her roommates were too drunk and her mom would never understand and David — she couldn't talk to David.

Like always, Gwen needed her big sister.

"I . . ." She paused, trying to figure out how to explain herself. "Audree, I . . ."

That was as far as she got before she started crying.

"Fuck, Gwennie, hold on." There was a shrill, unpleasant buzzing at her ear, and she'd barely pushed open the door to the apartment building when Audree burst into view, careening around the stairs and nearly knocking Gwen down. "Are you okay?" Audree asked, taking her by the shoulders and looking her up and down. Her jaw tightened; Gwen didn't know what she looked like, but after 45 minutes of sobbing in the back of an Uber it probably wasn't pretty. "What happened? Who —"

"S'fine," she choked out, pushing Audree away and wiping at her face. "No one — it was me, I . . ."

Audree led her up to the apartment, settling her down on the couch before taking a seat in the chair opposite, putting her chin in her hands and watching Gwen with a laser-focused intensity that would've been unnerving if she wasn't used to it. (Her sister's resting expression went beyond "bitch face" into " _American Psycho_ face," which made her a great lawyer and a terrible comforter.) She didn't say anything, just waited with those searching teal eyes cataloging everything about her, like she was already preparing her testimony against whoever'd hurt her baby sister. _"Yes, Your Honor, she arrived at exactly 1:15 am. She didn't seem to have any visible bruises but she was crying . . ."_

"Nobody hurt me," she finally muttered, staring down at her stupid slutty shoes, shoes she'd only worn because she'd once bullied David into admitting he had a thing for red heels. All that effort for a stupid fucking picture. "I'm just . . . shitty." Audree made a soft encouraging sound, a quiet noncommittal hum, a "I minored in social work and want you to open up at your own pace" noise that worked on witnesses and it worked on her. "I, uh, kissed this guy. I mean, he kissed me but I kinda knew he would and he was a dick and I probably could've, like, stopped him but I didn't." Her fingers were shaking. Why were her fingers shaking? "He, he w-wanted to — I mean he didn't _ask_ but I could tell he was gonna and I was scared of what I'd say because what if I said yes? And I freaked out and left and I di- hhhidn't know where to go so I came here." She winced, realizing how selfish that was. "Sorry to wake you up."

For a minute Audree was quiet. "So do you _like_ this guy or . . ."

Gwen made a sound that was somewhere between a scoff and a sob. "What? No."

"So you feel guilty because you didn't successfully fend off a creep before he assaulted you?" Almost immediately she added, "Fuck, sorry Gwennie, I promise I'm not lawyering you, I'm just a cunt sometimes. I didn't mean it like that, lemme try again." She took an exaggerated deep breath. "You were talking to a guy, and you think he was hitting on you and you . . . flirted back?"

"Not really." Sure, it was sometimes hard to tell where the line between "go fuck yourself tee hee" and "go fuck yourself before I stab you in the eye with this straw" was, but she had trouble imagining how (outside a bad romance novel) she could've been flirting. "I told him I had a boyfriend. But he said — he said I shouldn't be with a guy like David!"

"Riiiiiight, but this guy was an asshole. And he was wrong about you wanting him to kiss you."

"Well . . ." Audree was mostly right. What Gwen _wanted_ was to be in David's ridiculously grandmotherly apartment, curled up under the bright pink blanket he'd knitted in high school and listening to him try to teach her  _Pokémon_. Yet that didn't explain the strange attraction she'd had to the arrogant creep, the familiarity.

She hadn't wanted that stranger to kiss her, not exactly. But something about it had felt _right_.

"Listen, Gwen, there's nothing wrong with wanting to kiss someone, because, y'know, you're not dead." She leaned forward, fixing her with that iron stare that was half "trust me, I'm your sister and I love you" and half "eagle watching a mouse." (Great lawyer. _Terrible_ comforter.) "Hell, there's nothing wrong with flirting either. What I don't get is why some douchebag's opinion matters so much."

Neither did she, exactly. "He reminded me of . . ." Well jeez, she could start listing names but they'd be there all night, "of some of the guys I've dated."

Audree quirked one eyebrow. "Even more reason not to listen to him."

"I know, but —" Audree's apartment was warm, she could afford real heat. It was warm and comforting and she was safe, so why were her fingers still shaking? "He was my type."

She pressed her lips together. "You know what I think about your type, Gwennie." This was a conversation they'd had a few (hundred) times before. "You deserve better."

_"Why?"_

And there it was. Like something in her chest had snapped, words came spilling out in a rush. "I'm not a good person, Dree. I don't have _anything_ going for me, so in what fucking universe do I deserve better? And okay, maybe I could find a nice guy, but not David. He . . . he deserves someone sweet and pretty and h-happy and not . . ."

Broken.

It sounded so melodramatic, but she was. Because whole people weren't paralyzed by their own self-loathing, they didn't try ruin things before they could even get started, they didn't kiss smoke-flavored strangers in bars because they loved their boyfriend too much and were terrified of that.

"He loves kids, and I don't. We don't — don't have anything in _common_ , and sometimes . . . I don't know what we have going for us except, y'know, stuff he doesn't have to get from me."

Audree wrinkled her nose. "Not an image I needed, sis." She grimaced and said, "Fuck, I'm being an asshole again, sorry," moving so she was sitting on the couch next to her and pulling her into an awkward half-hug. (None of the Santos clan were very good at hugging, something Gwen hadn't really noticed until she'd gotten used to David's.) "You don't think you're right for him?"

Gwen didn't think she was _right_ , period. "I just think he . . . if he knew better, he wouldn't waste his time on me."

"Isn't that kinda his decision?"

She shrugged, leaning her head into the soft black cloud of Audree's hair. "But he's new to all this. Isn't my terrible dating experience good for something?"

 _"Yes,"_ Audree said firmly. "It means you know what not to do. You know how people can make each other feel like shit, and you can do the opposite."

Gwen made a face. "I'm not . . . good at that kinda thing. The being-nice thing."

"Look who you're fucking talking to. But don't you wanna try?" She pulled back, her expression expectant and pitying. "It seems like you think he deserves that."

She couldn't meet her sister's eyes, so she picked at the carpet's upholstery. "You sound like David's mom. She's all smart and has her shit together too."

"Oh?" Audree's eyes lit up, a sly grin spreading across her face. "Single mother, right? Bit of a cougar?"

Gwen picked up a pillow and hit her with a snort of disgust. "No, you don't get to hit on his mom! I mean, you're probably never gonna meet her, because shit'll go wrong way before then, but still. Leave her alone."

"Oh, Gwen." Her smile softened, and she snuggled closer to slip an arm around Gwen's shoulders. "Someday you're gonna believe you deserve the good things that happen to you. And I'm gonna be there to say I told you so."

She laughed, the sound weak and hollow even to her. "Well now it _has_ to happen, because you're never wrong." She sighed, adjusting Audree's arm so it was less stiff and uncomfortable. "He should be with someone like you," she muttered finally. "Someone hotter and without all the, like, bitterness and failure."

"Nuh-uh. David's cute, but have you _seen_ women?" Gwen tried to smile, but she was exhausted all of a sudden. "You need to talk to him, y'know, about all this shit. Because I mean, I don't know the guy, but he didn't look like he has a fucking clue you're thinking any of this."

Audree was probably right. She usually was. But the last thing Gwen wanted to do was explain to David in painstaking detail all the reasons he deserved so much better than her, especially when he was probably already beginning to put the pieces together himself. (How could he not, after seeing how she lived?) "Yeah, probably."

"That's the best I'm getting, huh?" Audree ruffled her hair and climbed to her feet, stretching. "It's way too late for you to go home. Your room's waiting for you."

"It's not _my_ room," Gwen grumbled, following Audree into the guest room and accepting the pajamas her sister found for her.

She grinned. "It could be." When Gwen didn't respond, she frowned and leaned against the wall. "Come on, at least _think_ about moving in."

"I told you, I can't afford this. I couldn't even pay a quarter of the rent, so I dunno why you're even bothering." She did, of course; her sister was a good person, and she worried.

 _"I_ pay full rent on this place anyway, I don't need you chipping in anything. And it's not charity," she added as Gwen opened her mouth, "I wanna live with you."

She knew better than to ask why (no one needed a middle-of-the-night lecture on self-esteem), but they both knew she was thinking it. "I have Platypus, though."

"I love that little fucker, so don't even try to use him against me." Giving up, she pecked Gwen on the temple. "Fine, go to sleep. Just . . . I want you to move in because I _like_ spending time with you. I think David does, too. It's okay if you're all you have to offer, all right? It's good enough."

Gwen was going to make fun of her, ask her what stupid self-help book she'd found that in. But her throat was a little tight, so she just nodded. "Thanks, Dree. Night."

"Night, Gwennie. It's gonna be fine, okay?"

She wanted to believe that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be Gwen, kids. Literally just . . . never ever ever be Gwen.


	8. Selfish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was selfish. It was just one of the many things wrong with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, do you know [R.A. Enbows? ](http://raenbowsofficial.tumblr.com/)She's that awesome person who always betas my garbage and makes it less garbage-y? Well, she's doing that to the sequel, too! She also draws amazing Gwenvid art and amazing other art, and you should totally check her out. (Hey, new story, new disclaimer, why not?)

**Summer 2017**

_Get up._

_Get the fuck up._

_Get out of bed, you lazy piece of shit_.

It wasn't any good. Gwen stared up at the ceiling, sweating to death under the blankets but she couldn't even gather the strength to push them off her. Her chest was tight, her heart racing, the blood in her ears loud enough to drown out anything else, her stomach tight and quivery like she was going to throw up.

She had to get up. Breakfast was in ten minutes. David was probably waking up the campers now —

Fuck.

 _David_.

He couldn't see her like this.

That thought, and the cold-sweat-sick panic that accompanied it, was enough to jolt her into a sitting position, her movements jerky and clumsy like a wind-up toy. She slid the blankets off and turned to the side and just . . . sat there, heels braced on the splintery wooden bed frame, elbows on her thighs, head in her hands. As much as her mind kept saying (screaming) at her that this wasn't much better than being found lying in bed, sitting up had drained her of even her meager energy, and the bone-deep weariness that settled in its place kept her rooted to the spot, staring at the patch of worn carpet between her feet like she could teleport herself there if she just tried hard enough.

 _You're doing great! Okay, we both know that's bullshit, but come on. Just stand up and get dressed_.

Nothing. It was like there was something blocking her brain's orders from her muscles, something heavy and dense settling like silt along her veins and weighing her down.

"Gwen?" There was a knock on the door, making her jump and scramble to her feet. ( _See?_ her mind wailed. _You could've gotten up any goddamn time!_ ) None of the bedrooms had locks, but David still waited for her to respond before poking his head inside, a surprised frown creasing his forehead. "Um . . . do you need a little more time to get ready?"

Sure, just a lifetime or two. Gwen shrugged, running a hand through her hair and wincing as her fingers snagged on knots. "Few minutes, yeah. Sorry, I was lazy this morning."

"Oh, okay. No problem! I'll . . . should I wait for you?"

She shook her head with a dismissive wave of her hand that was impressively casual. That anxiety and regret hardly seemed crippling at all! "Nah, no point making you late too. I'll catch up."

That wasn't what she wanted to say, not even close. What she wanted to say was _stay and help me tame my hair._ What she wanted to say was _stay, I'm scared I'll crawl back into bed the second you're gone._ What she wanted to say was _I'm sorry I insisted on sleeping in my own room, I missed you the entire night and I'm not ready for you to leave yet._

What she wanted to say was _please, please let me be selfish and hold onto every second I have left before you come to your senses._

"Right. Right, that makes sense. And you should, y'know, have time to . . . of course." David paused for a second, gnawing on his thumbnail. She was about to ask what was wrong — did she have drool on her face or something? — when he darted forward, crossing the room in a few long strides, and cupped her jaw, pulling her in clumsily for a kiss on the temple before backing away. "Um, I'll . . . I'll see you out there," he mumbled, scuffing his heel along the carpet.

"Yeah." That was a little out of character for David. Even before they'd gotten together he wasn't really shy about physical affection; he wasn't kissing her, sure, but this hesitation, this almost embarrassed withdrawal — that was new. Like he hadn't been positive she'd want him to do it. Or like he hadn't been positive _he_ wanted to.

The thought coiled cold and leaden in her stomach, because things had been . . . weird since they'd arrived at camp for the summer. Maybe it was just a little new-relationship awkwardness, but after almost a year it could hardly be called _new_ anymore, could it? The only new element had been that they'd visited each other.

And that was the problem, wasn't it?

"Hey." She snagged his sleeve, pulling him to a stop. He glanced up, something sweet and hopeful in his eyes; she swallowed and looked away. "I'll, uh, see you tonight, okay? We'll hang out?" That was one thing she still had to offer, at least.

David smiled, plucking her hand off his sleeve and squeezing it. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Her answering smile felt almost real.

* * *

They didn't see much of each other for the rest of the day; it was Search & Rescue Camp, which meant they were so busy running around making sure all the campers were accounted for that they barely spoke. Even lunch and dinner were fairly quiet, both of them dead on their feet and barely able to say more than a few words to each other.

Gwen hated to admit it, but it was kind of a relief. Because when it came to actually _talking_ . . .

"What a fun day!" The exclamation point in David's voice was a little wobbly, but she was amazed he could work up any enthusiasm at all. He was nursing a gash on his elbow from one of the kids' fingernails (some of them, led by Nikki, really resisted the idea of being "rescued"). "I think it went great, don't you?"

"It . . ." _Come on_ , she berated herself, _think of something positive! He likes positive._ Unfortunately, Gwen wasn't very good at looking for the bright sides of anything. But he didn't need to listen to her bitch about how tired or annoyed she was; he deserved a girlfriend who could at least try to match his excitement. "They're really . . . energetic."

David gave her a strange look, a slightly guarded half-smile, and she cursed herself for not being convincing. He probably saw through the phony Pollyanna act in a second. Why couldn't she just be _happy_ like normal people? "Yeah, they were!"

His knuckles brushed against hers. They froze for a second, then he took her hand, lacing their fingers.

Gwen wasn't sure if he was just being polite — if he could feel how cold her fingers were without his constant sunshine and pitied her for it — but she tightened her grip and wished she had the words to thank him for every scrap of affection he threw around like it was nothing.

Which it probably _was_. It wasn't like David was reserved about touching people; even before they'd dated she'd gotten used to being on the receiving end of a barrage of hugs and pats and friendly slaps (that were way harder than he seemed to realize).

But fuck it, she'd take what she could get for as long as she could get it, take it with as much of a smile as she could muster. As they approached the cabin she leaned in slightly, letting her arm graze his. Small contact, such a pathetically tiny _nothing_ of a touch, but it prickled over her skin.

 _Bump_.

She glanced down, but he'd leaned away again, tilting his head back and looking up at the sky. He bumped her shoulder with his once more before dropping her hand to open the cabin door, flicking on the hallway light and ushering her through like he was her butler.

Gwen rolled her eyes. "I'm not the queen, for Christ's sa —" She cut off abruptly, pressing her lips together and frowning own at the floor, because who the fuck was she to tell him off for being nice? "Thanks," she muttered instead, scurrying out of his way with her shoulders hunched. (God, she was gonna end up with posture as bad as his if she kept it up.)

"You're . . . welcome?"

For a second they both hovered in the hallway, watching each other without making eye contact, and it was crazy because they'd _never_ been this awkward — talking had always been effortless. Even when she was pining over him, even when he was apparently pining over her, even her first week, they were literally strangers and they'd had an easy rapport, David bouncing along at fifteen words a second and her trying to keep up, throwing the occasional wrench into his crazy plans or teasing him for his unshakeable " _campe diem."_

But lately he didn't have so much to say that words tumbled over themselves trying to get out.

And lately she didn't have anything to say at all.

She jumped as David's fingers closed around her wrist, turning her palm up and tracing the creases in her skin. "Um, Gwen . . ." He spoke haltingly, quietly, it felt like a word every fifteen seconds instead of the opposite. "Have you noticed that — I mean, do you think . . ."

No.

She'd really rather not.

"I'm just tired," she mumbled, turning to him. It was the perfect excuse because she _was_ , she was tired all the time and she was especially tired of acting like she wasn't. And that wasn't David's fault — he hadn't done anything wrong except believe in her — but living up to whatever he saw when he looked at her was _exhausting_. "It's fine, really, it's just been a long day."

She was tired of pretending to be normal, but that didn't mean she had the energy to talk about it.

"O-okay. Yeah, that makes sense! It was pretty stressful, in some ways . . ." His brows, which had furrowed just slightly, smoothed out again and he gave her a sunny smile. It felt like a reward for being okay — or for faking it.

She couldn't help it; she'd spent too long working here, bathing in his smiles even when she hadn't wanted to, and now they'd created a Pavolovian response in her.

David smiled, Gwen felt better.

Gwen felt better, she wanted him to keep smiling.

Which meant . . . seeming like she was worth more than she really was. No matter how tired it made her.

She stepped closer, as though she could inhale his smile if she just got near enough. "Wanna help me _relax?"_ she whispered, and his breath caught in his throat.

"I — I, um . . ." His eyes darted from hers down to their linked hands, to the wall over her shoulder and back again, his face growing redder with each anxious flick. She loved that almost a year of near-constant flirting hadn't made him immune to ridiculous come-ons, how even something that cheesy still made him flustered and shy. Finally he met her gaze and held it, swallowing hard, then nodded weakly. "Uh-huh."

Before she'd met David, Gwen hadn't really put much thought into kissing. It wasn't that she disliked it — it was the most important moment in any good romance, and caused the most drama in all her favorite TV shows — but it hardly seemed sustainable. It was an explosion, a firecracker that lit up the sky and then disappeared almost immediately, because everyone knew that making out was something you grew out of in high school, that a normal adult relationship treated kissing as the necessary stepping stone to sex. It was a lit match dropped in gasoline, but nobody wanted to stand around holding the burning stick when there was something much brighter and hotter lying at their feet.

Nobody, anyway, except David.

The first time he'd tugged at his bandanna nervously and mumbled, stammering, if maybe he could just kiss her for a little bit longer before the, y'know, _rest_ — if that was okay — she'd made the mistake of laughing. (Which had caused him to retreat into his bandanna until only his bright-pink forehead was left peeking over the yellow fabric, and it'd taken several minutes to coax him back out.) But she couldn't help it, because the idea of just kissing as an end in itself had seemed crazy. She'd figured it'd take maybe ten minutes for him to get bored and move on, because . . . well, what was there to it, really?

Gwen prided herself on having taught him a whole hell of a lot, especially since they'd started dating. This "kissing" thing, though? Turned out he'd been 100% right on that count.

Maybe it was selfish, to ghost her fingers up his sides because she loved how it made him shiver, to yank on his bandanna because she loved his startled squeak, to slide her hands into his hair and tug because she loved the choked, almost broken moan he couldn't swallow back. Maybe it was even more selfish that after a few breathless minutes she let him tilt her head back, let him pepper her jaw and throat with soft suckling kisses that emptied the air from her lungs, let her hands fall limp against his chest, give up all semblance of control and love the feeling. Selfish to love the way David had taken the time and cared enough to learn every one of her buttons, paid careful attention to where and when and how to press each, because she didn't deserve this. She shouldn't let him take care of her when selflessness dictated she take charge, use the few valuable skills she had, take the scant worthwhile results of half a decade of disastrous relationships and put them to use. When she had so little to offer, it was selfish to feel the strength leech out of her muscles until all she could do was cling to his shirt and keep breathing.

Maybe it was selfish how much she loved so many things about him, even if she couldn't even come close to deserving them. But she wasn't strong enough to let any of it go.

Not yet.

* * *

Gwen was almost asleep when a warm, solid weight draped over her side. She jerked awake and glanced down, smirking at the pale, lightly-freckled arm bright and luminescent in the dim moonlight. There was a soft rustling from behind her, and then David was pressed against her back, nuzzling into the crook of her neck. "Mmmhh."

She turned her chin as much as she could before her jaw bumped against his forehead, strands of soft auburn pouf tickling her nose with each breath. "Thought you were asleep," she murmured.

He hummed drowsily, lifting his head just enough to plant a slightly-chapped kiss to her cheekbone. "Missed you."

"A whole six inches away was too much?" When he didn't reply, just let his head plop heavily back down onto the pillow, she smiled and reached back to run her fingers through his hair, doing her best not to disturb him. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Hnngh." For a minute he was quiet, and she resigned herself to trying to find her phone without getting out of bed. But then he shifted against her and the room was lit up by a blinding flash of neon blue. "Twelve-thirty."

"Huh." Later than she usually stayed. Well, the past few weeks — last summer she was pretty sure they hadn't slept in separate rooms since the disastrous Order of the Sparrow. But things were different this year.

This year, she couldn't make it a full night before the feeling of David's body around hers became suffocating, because she could already feel the chill emptiness that would surround her after they broke up, cold and impossibly dense in her gut and there was only so long she could stomach that feeling.

 _Stop it_.

This year, she could only listen to his breathing for so long, hated how she could tell if he’d managed to fall asleep or if he was looking out the window at the forest just by the depth of his inhales. How it was only a matter of time before that information wouldn't be hers anymore, until she stopped being allowed to share the nights with him like this and while she wanted to stay and drink up as much of him as she could, she had to get out of there before she drowned in her own thoughts.

 _Stop being so_ fucking _melodramatic_.

This year, she couldn’t sleep over without feeling the hot sour prick behind her eyes and constricting her chest, and she couldn’t have him ask her why she was crying. No matter what Audree told her she just couldn’t stand the thought of enumerating point-by-point the many many reasons he’d be better off without her, because there was too good a chance he’d realize she was right and she was too selfish to have that conversation a second before she had to.

 _You’re going to ruin this, you paranoid, crazy bitch_.

“That’s late.” As gingerly as she could, Gwen slid out from under his arm, climbing to her feet and avoiding his eyes. “Should probably get back to my own bed if I’m gonna have any energy for those brats.

“Oh.” David sat up, his face hidden in shadow. (Her own was illuminated by the silver light slanting in through the window, and she hated to think what she looked like.) “Are, uh, you having trouble sleeping here?”

She shrugged, giving him a smile that felt painted on. “Oh, y’know . . .” _Please don’t let me leave. Please ask me to stay_.

“Well, of course I want you to be rested, Gwen,” he said, after a moment where he seemed to be waiting for an elaboration that she had no intention of providing. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

“Yeah, definitely.” She bent down and gathered up her clothes, hugging them to her chest, before darting forward and pecking him on the corner of the mouth. “I had fun tonight,” she said quietly, hoping he’d hear in her voice something of the confused and roiling emotions screaming in her chest.

_Please, dear god, David, don’t let me walk through that door._

His mouth twitched under hers, too slightly for her to tell if it was a smile or a grimace. “Me too,” he replied, brushing his lips against hers briefly before pulling back. “But . . .” His shoulders slumped, and she couldn't help but wonder if it was in disappointment or relief. “You should get a good night’s sleep.”

"Sure.” She blinked, clearing her throat. God, she couldn’t cry in here. Just a few more seconds and she could fall apart in the safety of her own bedroom like usual. “Night.”

He just nodded, and she slipped out of the room in silence.

* * *

And that was their week. That was two weeks. She hated it, but she hated the idea of it ending even more.

But of course it had to, she knew that.

They both did.

“H-hey, Gwen?” David pulled back, though she only let him go far enough to rest his forehead against hers. It felt like these points of contact, sweat-slick evenings that released tensions like the snapping of a rubber band, were impossibly valuable and fragile. “Could . . .” He was breathing hard, but not enough to justify the length of that pause; apprehension coiled tighter in her gut with every fraction of a second he hesitated. “Could we maybe . . . not, tonight?”

Gwen stepped away automatically, not understanding.

He read her blank look and flushed, looking down at the floor. “It’s just . . . maybe we could watch TV? Or talk?” His eyes darted back up to hers, shy and hopeful and very embarrassed. “It’s n-not that I _don’t_ — it’s just — it’s . . .” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Would that be okay?”

“Of course, David,” she said through lips that were strangely numb — even more bizarre considering how alive and tingling they’d felt just a minute ago. “Whatever you need.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” His shoulders slumped and he gave her a bashful, relieved grin. “I just . . . I dunno, I wanted . . .” He shook his head with a shrug. “I don’t know what I wanted.”

Neither did she. “I’m just gonna go to the bathroom, okay?”

“Sure!” He stepped aside, letting her brush past him.

Once the bathroom door was shut she sank onto the closed toilet seat, resting her forehead in her hands and taking deep breaths.

This was normal, she reminded herself. It wasn’t like she was some kind of _animal_ , after all. Couples didn’t have sex every night anyway, sometimes she wasn’t in the mood and David was absolutely more of a prude about all this than she was, so of course there’d be times when he just wouldn’t be interested. That didn’t mean he wasn’t interested in _her_ , she knew that.

She . . . knew that.

Gwen bit down hard on her knuckle to muffle the gasping, high-pitched sob that tore from her throat, shuddering from her chest in wet ragged whines that made it hard to breathe and would make looking normal once she left the bathroom impossible, because of fucking _course_ she was an ugly crier, everything else about her was ugly so it just made sense, because her life her apartment her face her body her personality was so disgusting nobody could ever tolerate it for long. No wonder David didn’t want to touch her, the miracle was that he’d tolerated it for as long as he had, she was lucky distance made the heart grow fonder or whatever because there’s no way they would’ve lasted a year if it weren’t for a six-hour drive and conflicting work schedules because _god_ she wouldn’t fuck her, she couldn’t even look at herself in the mirror most of the time so she couldn’t really blame him -- but how repulsive must she be, how little must he like her to turn down a free orgasm? It wasn’t like he was getting any somewhere else so apparently nothing was better than she was and . . . and . . .

 _Stop_ , she snapped at herself, forcing her breaths to more or less even out and sitting up straight. _You’re overreacting, you’re freaking out so just fucking stop it._

Knowing it was true didn’t make her feel any better, of course, but she was able to wrestle herself into something approaching calm.

 _Good_ , the quiet little voice in the back of her mind continued, the Audree she carried with her for when the real thing wasn’t available. _Now take a shower, splash some cold water on your face, and go watch TV. It’s fine. Everything’s fine_.

“Gwen!” David brightened when she finally emerged, and if her face and eyes were a little pink that was just because the water was for once hot enough to give her a nice healthy flush and there was nothing anyone could say to change her story. He wriggled to the side with all the elegance of a fish on land, giving her more room in his armchair. “Look what I found left over from last summer!” It was one of Gwen’s DVDs, the first season of _Prison Teen Mom Wars_. “What do you think?”

She managed a weak smile and sat down next to him, letting him drape his arm over her shoulders and pull her against his chest. Apparently his complete disinterest in her didn’t overpower his love of cuddling . . . unless this was just because he’d heard her crying, maybe this was _pity_ —

 _Gwen. Enough_.

The voice was like a sudden slap, jerking her out of her head and back to David’s side. “Sounds —” She cleared her throat and tried again. “Sounds like fun.”

And for a few minutes they were quiet. Except for a few quietly murmured opinions on some of the moms — he loved Carol Mae, and under different circumstances she’d be excited to see how he’d react to her becoming the villain — they didn’t say much.

Gwen was startled by something alighting on her hair, almost too soft to feel. David froze when he felt her jump. “Sorry,” he whispered, trailing his fingers down the strands to her shoulder. “Just . . . should I stop?"

She shook her head, her throat oddly tight as she slumped back against his chest and let him stroke her hair. It made her scalp tingle, a ticklish-shivery sensation that would’ve been pleasant, would’ve made her tilt her head up and kiss him because it was nice in a way that was warm and buzzing and familiar. It wasn’t supposed to be an invitation but she wanted to take it like one.

She couldn’t, of course. Whatever he wanted — whatever he was getting out of snuggling against her side and petting her hair — it wasn’t that. Not from her, apparently.

But if not that . . . then _what?_

“Wh — Gwen?” David’s arms fell away from her as she wriggled free, scooting to the edge of the chair and sitting there for a moment with her eyes squeezed shut.

“Sorry,” she muttered, and she hoped he’d attribute the roughness in her voice to exhaustion, or maybe just her usual bitchy self. Certainly not that she felt like she was going to cry for the third time that day, of course not. That’d be crazy, and she . . .

She _really_ hoped he hadn’t figured out how crazy she was yet.

He tentatively put one hand on her shoulder. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, totally, sorry.” She shook him off, climbing to her feet and stretching in what she hoped was a vague semblance of normalcy. “Just, y’know, tired.”

“Tired. Right.” She couldn’t look at him — didn’t trust herself to meet those stupidly pretty green eyes without tearing up again — but she wanted to, because there was a dullness in his voice that she didn’t know how to read, and it scared her not knowing what he was thinking. “I’m sorry.”

Gwen took a few steps toward her bedroom before she finally summoned the strength to turn back to him, shaping her face into something that vaguely resembled a nonchalant expression. “It’s fine, just haven’t been sleeping all that great,” she said. And it was stupid and unfair and mean, but the petty hurt voice inside her chest had to have its say and forced itself out through her throat in the form of the words “and I mean, if nothing _else_ is happening tonight I’ll probably just go to bed.”

It was hard to tell, because her gaze was firmly fixed on the tip of his bright red bangs (which were starting to droop as the heat overpowered his hairspray), but she thought she caught a flash of something . . . _crumpling_ was the only word that came to mind. Like one of the supports holding up his face had wobbled, just for a second.

But then it was smoothed over and he turned back to the television with a shrug. “I understand,” he said coolly, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he actually understood _anything_ , if he could sound that casual if he had an inkling of what was going on in her mind. “I’ll probably just . . . finish this episode.”

There was an offer there. She could agree that twenty minutes wasn’t very long at all and return to his side, smush herself into the narrow space between his hips and the arm of the chair and let him play with her ponytail and tease him for averting his eyes at every hint of sex or violence.

It was an olive branch. Or maybe a life preserver.

“All right, have fun. Lemme know what you think of it in the morning.” And with that Gwen turned and disappeared into her room.

She was just too goddamn good at drowning.

 


	9. Detonate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who did they think they were kidding, anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, do you know [R.A. Enbows? ](http://raenbowsofficial.tumblr.com/)She's that awesome person who always betas my garbage and makes it less garbage-y? Well, she's doing that to the sequel, too! She also draws amazing Gwenvid art and amazing other art, and you should totally check her out. (Hey, new story, new disclaimer, why not?)

**Summer 2017**

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Gwen groaned, rolling over and pawing blindly at her phone. That was, what, her third time hitting snooze? That meant it was around 6:45, and she had fifteen minutes before breakfast.

Which . . . didn’t seem right. She sat up, double-checking the time on her phone with a sinking feeling in her stomach. Yep, 6:46 a.m., stark white letters against the New York City skyline that’d been her phone background for years.

David usually woke her up before now. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept in this late, without the gentle rap on her bedroom door and a sunny “Good morning, Gwen!” Of course, it could be a coincidence that the one morning he didn’t come to get her also happened to be the morning after he’d turned her down for sex and she’d had a major freakout. It could definitely just be unfortunate timing; hell, maybe David had overslept for once.

It was always possible, right?

And if he wasn’t in the main room of the cabin, and if his bedroom door was wide open and neatly put together and empty, then that was just another unfortunate coincidence.

Gwen wasn't very good at positive thinking, not like David. But she managed to wrestle her brain into something resembling optimism — or at least not blind, shrieking panic — as she stumbled through her morning routine, and was proud that she only felt slightly nauseous as she approached the mess hall.

David was standing by the breakfast line, overseeing the Quartermaster as he served the campers. (This was deemed necessary after he “accidentally” impaled the hand of a camper who’d been trying to steal an extra pudding cup. Poor Chucky never quite regained total mobility of his pinky.) Technically the counselors were supposed to trade off this job, but he always volunteered to take her “shifts,” because he liked the extra time to greet the campers as they came to the end of the line.

Usually she was too tired to give much of a shit about anything that was going on before her second cup of coffee, but this morning she couldn’t help but let her eyes linger on the back of the mess hall, watching as David playfully ruffled Max’s hair — easily dodging the boy’s sleep-clumsy shove — and asked Nikki about the caterpillar she was keeping in her overall bib pocket. His smile was happy and relaxed, effortless like it always seemed to be in the mornings. By the end of the day there’d be a bit more strain holding up that expression, but David was a morning person, of course. She’d hadn’t  _forgotten_ how much she missed seeing him first thing in the morning, but watching him put a hand on Space Kid’s helmet and comfort him over something QM had threatened, she was struck with a wave of homesickness so bad it felt like a weight on her chest, one that made her shoulders hunch up and her back bow. And for once that feeling wasn’t from seeing the city skyline on TV or from hearing a distant siren from town.

“Morning, Gwen.” David set her tray down in front of her — she hadn’t even thought of getting her own food, she was so used to him insisting — with a small smile that didn’t burn as brightly as the one he’d favored the campers with. “How’d you sleep?”

“Um . . . okay. Pretty well?” After curling up and crying with her teeth sank into her pillow so he wouldn’t overhear and wonder what was wrong. That kind of empty-your-insides sobbing was draining, and as awful as it seemed she actually  _had_ slept better than usual. “Overslept a little, I guess.”

She didn’t have the courage to be any more explicit than that, to come right out and ask if he was mad at her and that’s why he hadn’t gotten her up, but he nodded down at his breakfast like she’d asked anyway, twirling the gummy eggs with his fork and gnawing on his lower lip. “Of course. You must’ve been exhausted.” He swallowed, letting the eggs drip back onto the tray and coalesce back with the rest of the goo. “The first few weeks at camp are always pretty tiring, huh?”

His eyes met hers, then, and in them was that uncertain flicker Gwen had grown accustomed to lately, that waver of hope and nervousness like he was hoping she’d take the excuse he was offering and grant him some peace of mind. Just a little bit more, just to hold them together for a few more hours.

She nodded, dropping her gaze to her coffee and swirling it absently. “Yeah, it’s hard to get back into the swing of things.”

“It is!” And again Pavlov, that motherfucker, sprang to mind. Because it was just too automatic, mindless even. A reflex.

David smiled, Gwen felt better.

She felt better, she wanted him to keep smiling.

Which meant . . . lying. Lying until neither of them had the energy to buy it anymore.

But it seemed like the potency of their bullshit was starting to fade. Because that smile, the feeling better, only lasted as long as a quiet breakfast before David climbed to his feet, clapping to get the kids’ attention and beaming. “All right, kiddos! Why don’t you go brush your teeth and Gwen and I will meet you out on the activities field!”

She glanced up at him, confused. Normally they split up after breakfast so that she could watch over (and wrangle) the kids and David and QM would do dishes, but . . . “Who’s gonna take roundup duty?”

His smile didn’t falter, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes as he turned to her. “The Quartermaster agreed to supervise the campers so we can stay behind and clean up before morning activities. Sound good?”

It wasn’t really a question; the kids were already filing out of the mess hall, and QM had disappeared to . . . somewhere mysterious. Either way, this was clearly something they’d worked out while she was still asleep. So she picked up her tray and started to one of the other tables, snagging abandoned silverware and napkins and trying to figure out a way to avoid this conversation.

She had about five minutes to think, as they wiped down the tables and brought the dishes into the kitchen, as she scraped leftover food and campers’ experiments (and she couldn’t always tell them apart) into the trash and tried not to gag, as she joined David over the giant industrial sink and buried her hands in sickly gray-green suds and got to work. About five minutes of near-total silence, of clinking plastic and rustling clothing and not much else. In those five minutes, she failed to come up with anything to say.

But it seemed David had. "Gwen . . ." He swallowed, looking away for a second before taking a deep breath and forcing his eyes back to hers. "What'd I do wrong?"

It took her a second to recover, to swallow her surprise and meet his gaze, and it was just long enough to make every word that followed ring hollow. “You haven’t done anything wrong. Wh —”

Gwen cut herself off. Because what was the point in pretending that she had no idea where this question was coming from?

Instead she shrugged and returned to wiping out a glass with her washcloth. “Really, David, it’s nothing. It’s . . . I’m just —”

“ _Don’t_ say you’re tired,” he snapped, and it wasn’t quite angry but it was close, something anger-like but with a little wound in the center, bleeding frustration and impatience and a bone-deep weariness that felt too, too familiar. It was the same kind of pleading aching fatigue that she’d heard just over a year ago, in the words “times have changed, whether I like it or not.”

Times  _had_ changed. Whether they liked it or not.

She opened her mouth but he held up one soapy hand, bracing the other against the lip of the sink.  _“Please_ , Gwen. I . . .” He sighed, shaking his head. “I’m tired of you being tired.”

Something warm and barbed coiled in her stomach, and it was better than frigid dread or acidic guilt so she grabbed onto it with hands that would be lacerated bloody.  _He_ was tired of it? How the fuck did he think she felt having to live it every goddamn day? “Listen, David, I’m trying  _real_ hard to hide it and just be ‘happy sunshine camp counselor,’ but maybe it doesn’t come so fucking easily to everyone, okay?”

 _“Easily?”_ he repeated with a look of utter disbelief. “Who ever said that anything about . . . who said  _any_ of this was easy?”

“I’m just dealing with a lot of shit,” she said, forcing herself to take a deep breath and a few steps back, wiping her hand on a rag she really hoped had always been gray. “I’ve got a lot going on —”

“Like  _what_ , Gwen?” They both froze, realizing what he’d just said at the same time, and no sooner had the words left his mouth than he was covering it, ignoring the brackish water dripping down his fingers and wrists. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like — I just —”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t, and her lips felt almost too numb to form the words, but it wasn’t David’s fault. She could hardly hate him for understanding how it was with her — how little it took to leave her moody and overwhelmed and a terrible girlfriend. How “a lot of shit” sometimes consisted of a few sad thoughts that clung to her brain like spiderwebs and gummed up everything that was supposed to make her work like normal people. An idiot would’ve noticed something as obvious as how pathetic she was, and despite his other faults, David wasn’t an idiot.

David shook his head, all the anger leeching out with the tears that threatened to spill over his eyelashes. “No, Gwen, I don’t . . . of  _course_ you have plenty going on, I just . . .” His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “I want to be a part of it. I miss you. I’ve — every time we aren’t together, I miss you. And since we’ve been back, even though we are . . .”

God, he was sweet. Sweeter than she deserved, sweeter than was good for him. And even though it was the worst way to respond, even though the Audree in her head was furious and wailing, she tightened her grip on the thorns of anger and dug her nails in, asked herself if she was honestly supposed to believe that he  _missed_ being teased and complained at by a bitch like her. He might be a closet masochist, but even he had limits. What kind of misguided hero’s complex kept him trotting back to her side, when her side was full of bad manners and a hideous apartment and no friends and a miserable family, a miserable life, a miserable  _person?_

The same hero’s complex, she realized with a sickening lurch, that kept him chasing after Max. Another joyless, caustic fuckup who didn’t know what to do with such blatant affection and who almost compulsively had to throw it back in his face. Someone with so much  _potential_ , if only he had a friend who’d believe in him. A project to nurture and feel good about at the end of the day, a success story that probably only existed in David’s head, a DIY he was still working on.

Did David see  _her_ as a project, too?

"Please." She snorted, crossing her arms and feeling the barbs shred through another layer of skin. "You just miss having someone to fuck."

"Wha — ? I . . ." His lips hardened into a thin line. "That's unfair and you know it."

They were jolted back to earth by a shrill beeping, the Camp Campbell theme song that signaled the end of the free period.

He glanced down at his phone, then at the half-finished dishes, and sighed, wiping off his hands without meeting her eyes. “It’s time for the morning activity.”

* * *

This wasn't one of their busiest days — Harrison had a magic show, which meant most of the afternoon was spent on the rough wooden benches facing the camp stage — and under normal circumstances the two of them would take the downtime as an opportunity to talk, plan for the rest of the week or mutter snarky comments (while David tried to keep her quiet and pretend he wasn't trying not to laugh), their fingers would find each other's. But he kept his face turned toward the stage and his hands in his lap, so she followed his lead and kept her mouth shut, watching Harrison unfurl a flower from between his fingers with her face blank and her mind racing.

By the time the curtain fell to lukewarm applause, the anger had completely leached out of her, and what was left was cold and sick and sad. By the time they’d sat through a dinner full of stilted small talk and playing with food neither of them were interested in eating, Gwen was pretty sure she was going to throw up the next time she opened her mouth.

By the time they’d returned to the cabin after putting the kids to bed — no stilted, pathetic attempts at small talk, not this time — she was close to a nervous breakdown.  _Calm down,_ she told herself, focusing on keeping her breaths steady and regular.  _This is fixable. You were a cunt, so just apologize and try harder to not be so . . . yourself all the fucking time. David’s forgiving. You’ll be fine._

_Probably._

He held open the cabin door for her, as usual, but as she slipped through his fingers caught around her upper arm. “Um, Gwen?”

Her stomach clenched.

Oh god.

David cleared his throat and let her go, stepping inside and locking the cabin door behind them. “Could we . . . talk? I think we need to.”

Oh god.

She was going to be sick. If she opened her mouth she was going to throw up all over the hallway and then she’d have to spend the evening scrubbing partially-digested broccoli out of the carpet and at least that’d be better because then they wouldn’t have to have The Talk — David couldn’t possibly break up with her if she was sick, so vomiting was starting to look like a better idea by the minute . . .

“Yeah,” she said, and she wasn’t sure how she sounded so casual, like she wasn’t talking around a throat thick with acid. “Probably a good idea.”

No it wasn’t. It was an awful idea. It was the fucking  _worst_ idea she’d ever heard of.

She followed him into the cramped living room, perching on the edge of her armchair. He didn’t sit down, to her surprise; he just started pacing back and forth, rubbing at the narrow pink scars on the backs of his hands. A nervous habit.

The knot in her stomach grew just a bit tighter.

The silence stretched for almost a full minute, broke only by the light scuffing of his boots against the floor, when she cracked. “Listen, David, I was a total bitch earlier and I’m sorry, I —”

“Wait.” He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. H- . . . how to say it. So please, just let me — I just need to get it out.”

She wanted to interrupt, drown whatever he was about to say in apologies because there was nothing good coming next, but his eyes popped open and focused on her just long enough to sever her vocal chords before he resumed pacing, wringing his hands and looking everywhere but at her.

“I’m . . .” His hands kept clenching into fists and releasing, like he was trying to grab the words long enough to force them out. “I’m not happy,” he finally said in a rush of breath, and it was like the tension had been sapped out of him. His shoulders slumped, relaxed, and his hands unfurled. When he turned to look at her, there was something like relief on his face. “I’m not. And — and I don’t think you are, either.” He paused, glancing at her like she hoped she would respond, confirm or deny or make still more excuses.

She didn’t. She didn’t know what she’d even say. Because she  _wasn’t_ happy, not even close. But she hadn’t been happy since graduating college, so what the fuck did it matter? And she couldn’t explain that, not to someone like David, someone who’d never understand, so she pressed her lips together and stared down at her thighs and idly wished they were smaller, more girly. As if having skinnier legs would make him want to be with her.

“This is . . . it isn’t  _working_ , and it used to. At least, I think it used to. And I don’t know what’s changed, if I did something or if you — or if maybe I was just misunderstanding things? And now . . .” David sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't know how you feel, about anything. Gwen, I'm trying so hard to be patient, but . . ." He shook his head, running his hands through his hair. "I mean — goodness, do you even actually  _like_ me?"

He looked up at her again, all big eyes and sincerity, and it didn’t make sense because the words coming out of his mouth were so goddamn  _stupid_ , but he was looking at her like they made sense, like he believed them. Like he thought she didn’t . . . that she could possibly . . .

He was waiting for an answer, she realized after a moment. The speech was done, and it was time to explain herself. But what was she supposed to say when she didn’t even understand what the fuck he was thinking? "That's — don't be — I —"

_That's ridiculous._

_Don't be crazy._

_I do. Of_ course  _I do._

_I like you so much I don't know what to do with myself._

"Gwen?" She snapped back to herself and realized that she had clutched the neck of her shirt and was crinkling it in one sweaty fist. Forcing her hands to relax, she avoided his eyes, because if she looked at him she'd shatter into pieces.

He wasn’t happy. David, the happiest person she’d ever met, the only man who could be tied to a spit-roast and  _smile_ , was unhappy. And she’d done that to him. All of this desperate clinging, excuses and being “tired” and half-smiles that must’ve looked as hollow and dead as she felt — it was for her benefit, and it was making him unhappy.

It was selfish, her wanting to be with him. If she had a heart she’d cut him free.

"Listen, David, I . . . like assholes. Guys who are self-involved, who make me feel like shit and who leave.  _That's_ my type." She shrugged, feeling oddly weightless. "This has been, I dunno, a fluke, an anomaly, whatever. It was bound to end sometime."

This was better. A dramatic speech, a tearful departure, maybe a little crying in the moonlight; it was downright Byronic. But most importantly, it was her leaving  _him_. If it had to happen anyway, if the right thing to do was  _make_ it happen, she wanted it to be on her terms.

She'd been dumped by a lot of people, but she didn't think she could stand being rejected by David.

"Bound to end? I don't . . ." He moved closer, reaching out to take her hand. "Gwen, please —” oh god, his voice cracked and with it her resolve, “— just tell me what’s wrong. We can . . . can’t we talk about it?”

Goddamn it. Goddamn it, goddamn it,  _goddamn it_. She couldn’t do this. She had to get out.

She had to say whatever it took to get out.

"I almost fucked someone else!" The words exploded out of her, totally unbidden; she covered her mouth but it was too late, they were in the air and they'd reached him, he'd heard them, she could see it in the way color bled from his face, making his freckles, usually almost invisible against his pink complexion, stand out in stark relief. And now that she'd started she couldn't stop, blurting out more and more things she'd never wanted to say. "I wasn't even that drunk, he kissed me and I  _let_ him, I thought about going home with him  _seriously thought about it_ , David! Okay? All this 'we can talk things out' bullshit? That only works with someone who — who —"  _Who works right in the first place_.

For a second he just stared at her, frozen and white like a statue, all bloodless lips and wide eyes and  _hurt_. "Wh . . ." He swallowed, licked his lips, looked down at his toes. "Why?"

His voice was so small. She'd never, ever heard him sound that small.

And that was painful, so she dug the knife in deeper, twisted it with everything she had as though it wasn't her own chest she was stabbing. "Because I make _terrible_ decisions," she spat; he flinched away from her voice, wrapping his arms around his ribs like he needed a hug so badly he'd give one to himself. "It's fucking obvious! It's why I'm stuck in a job I hate, with an education that doesn't do shit for me or anybody else, and dreams that . . . that don't . . . matter." Her voice dropped, almost without her noticing. "All I do is make mistakes," she finally muttered.

Because when God was putting together all the little boys and girls of the world He must've dropped her, something was broken inside her chest, something was missing and there were monsters rattling around in that empty jagged space and everyone she'd fallen in love with left, because she could only pretend to be whole for so long before the rattling became loud enough that everyone could hear it, and no one could sleep next to that kind of racket. Even if they could, even if like David someone managed to ignore it or not hear it — the monsters brought out their claws, because it was a hell of a lot harder to avoid scratches and they wanted her all to themselves, to eat up all her insides and walk around her body.

And that all sounded good, but it was bullshit because Gwen  _knew_ there weren't any monsters inside her. She could blame God or her parents or whatever she wanted but she was the only one inside her head and she was the one who kept fucking up, and she was the one who knew David was too good for her and she went and fell for him anyway like the selfish idiot she was. Because if there was a monster it was her, and the only person being hollowed out and destroyed was him.

And there'd been a part of her that'd known that, and it hadn't stopped her.

"Oh." For a second he just  _looked_ at her, reading her face and she hated it because she didn't know what he was seeing but it couldn't be good. And she hated even more that his eyes still made her shiver, even looking at her the way he was she still preferred it to him not looking at her at all, even when she was trying to cut him free she still wanted to hold on as tight as she possibly could. "Okay, then!"

She didn't know how to respond, because his voice was taut and too bright, to the point where she glanced around to see if any of the kids had snuck into the cabin without her noticing and he was pretending everything was fine.

But it was just them, and it wasn't fine, and he wasn't pretending.

"I'm sorry," he said after another moment, still strange and cheery and broken, like she was watching a movie that'd been dubbed over badly, and nothing sounded like it came from where it should. And he wasn't smiling, his face was terrifyingly neutral but he straightened his back and squared his jaw and looked away and continued. "I didn't mean to be a mistake. I . . ." He trailed off, swallowing thickly, and now she couldn't look at him either and this was the longest they'd ever gone without eye contact and it just felt so  _wrong_ , "I'm going to go check on the campers."

Gwen wanted to leap forward and take his arm, touch his shoulder, say something because he didn't understand, but she just nodded and he left and then all she could hear was her own ragged breathing.

It wasn't fair for him to think that, not when the truth was just the opposite, and no small part of her wanted to chase him down and explain that dating him had been one of the few things she felt like she'd done  _right —_ for herself, anyway. Maybe not for him, because how could anything be right if it made him this sad?

And that was what kept her rooted to the ground, and when she eventually started walking it was what directed her toward her bedroom.

The thing was, if she told him he wasn't a mistake he might think they could still work out. Because he was too good, he didn't understand that some people weren't fixable and weren't meant to be happy and there was nothing he could do about it, but if she gave him even half a reason to hope he would try, try until his fingers were bloody and there was nothing left of his smile, and she wasn't going to let that happen.

She'd had her heart broken before and she was still here, and David was a lot more resilient than her so he'd be fine. It'd be a rough few months, he'd probably be sad for the rest of the summer but then he'd go home and next year she wouldn't be here, not even if this was the only job available and Campbell offered her a raise, because she couldn't do that to him and she definitely couldn't do it to herself. She couldn't watch him move on.

He  _would_ , of that she had no doubt. He was cute and sweet and sunny, and it was only a matter of time before someone scooped him up, some pretty girl with an easy laugh or a broad-shouldered guy who could give him hugs that'd swallow him. Someone else with the same tenacious optimism, who was so happy they made David look gloomy and short-tempered in comparison, with his favorite-colored hair, pink or green or yellow maybe, that didn't get tangled or knotted or kinked when he tried to play with it but fell through his fingers like cornsilk and reflected the light. Someone he could love effortlessly, without thinking. Someone considerate and perceptive who didn't insult him or push him away, who knew how to say they appreciated him, who never let a day go by without making sure he knew he was good, and special, and important.

Gwen wanted that for him. She wanted him to feel so loved he could drown in it.

She just didn't want to watch it happen.


	10. Day(s) One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of a new relationship is almost unbearably exciting.
> 
> The first day of a breakup is just . . . almost unbearable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that I'm putting all of Camp Camp proper into the summer of 2016, since the showrunners said it's supposed to be one endless summer. Summers after that are randomly made up and following the assumption that the show took place in the present when S1 aired. (I know there's some controversy about that, but that's how it makes the most sense to me.)

**Summer 2016**

David woke up sore, and too warm, and not in his bedroom. For a terrifying second he wondered if he’d been kidnapped, but then his mind caught up to his senses and he smiled.

He was in Gwen’s room.

He was _in Gwen’s bed_.

A bed that was very much not large enough for two people to sleep comfortably, which was why his back was stiff and his neck was screaming. Gnawing on his bottom lip to control his grin — which was rapidly verging on “uncontrollably goofy” — he shifted, careful not to wake up the woman sprawled against his chest. The woman who, to be honest, had caused his right arm to fall asleep, but that barely registered in his brain.

Gwen had always told him that he was a living furnace, but right then she was the warm one, warm and radiant with early-morning light making her glow like she was his own mini sun.

Like she was _his_.

Which of course she wasn’t! They hadn’t . . . they weren’t exactly . . . That wasn’t a conversation they’d had yet.

But they _had_ — well.

David buried his face in his pillow to stifle the giddy, borderline-hysterical giggle that bubbled in his throat and tickled his chest, because he’d — he’d never — and he’d never dreamed that . . . _that_ , with . . .

He’d never thought he’d be here.

He still couldn’t quite believe he _was_ here.

Glancing at his watch, he realized with a sigh that it was almost time to get up for the day. There weren’t any activities planned, but the camp still needed breakfast and it was a habit of his to help the Quartermaster prepare it.

He sat up on his elbows, then looked down at Gwen.

Surely the Quartermaster would understand if he skipped just one morning?

Of course, he ought to at least tell QM that he couldn't make it. He didn't think the Quartermaster would _worry_ , per se, but he might notice, and considering the rules he was currently breaking, it was best to be as unnoticed as possible.

He carefully laid back down. Then again . . .

Gwen made a small snuffling noise in her sleep, rolling onto her side and nuzzling into the crook of his neck. A chill swept over him and he shivered, his eyes fluttering closed at the ticklish sensation of her breath on his throat.

Then again, he really didn't want to move. And his phone was currently on the floor, in the pocket of a crumpled pair of shorts. A phone with an alarm that would go off in — he checked his watch and winced — ten minutes.

So that kind of made his decision for him.

As carefully as he could, David scrambled over Gwen, nearly kneeing himself in the eye in his attempts to jostle her as little as possible. Once he was safely on the floor, he glanced back at the bed to see if he’d woken her up.

And . . . had to stop. Just for a second.

Her back was to him, still snuggled into the space he’d been laying, her legs curled up so that the bottoms of her feet peeked out at him from under the blankets. Her hair fell in tangles onto the pillow, messier even than after a full day of Hand-to-Hand Cobat Camp (they never had gotten around to fixing the spelling), and he felt a tiny dizzying thrill knowing she normally wouldn’t let him see her like that — like _this_ : goosebumped in the not-quite-dawn chill, shoulder blades sharp and fragile like wings, little barely-visible bumps along her spine. And it was seeing a glimpse of something so private, so intimate — not just asleep and not just naked but both, and something else, something vulnerable. He could see where bones pressed outward against her skin, and Gwen was so strong and fierce and beautiful but right then she looked almost _delicate_ and it . . .

It took his breath away.

It felt like a privilege. One he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Standing in the middle of the room felt way too exposed, so he clumsily tugged on his boxers with one hand, digging through the pockets of his shorts with the other. Snagging his phone, he tapped out a quick message to QM; he and the Quartermaster had an . . . interesting communication system, where he sent updates about the camp and QM replied with a hook emoji that David was pretty sure didn’t come standard with the phone. It was sometimes difficult to discern what the hook hand meant, but David generally chose to take it as a thumbs-up. It meant their conversations were brief and a bit one-sided — 

— but it worked for them.

Once that was taken care of, he snuck another quick peek at Gwen to make sure she was still asleep and quickly opened his conversation with Julia: ‘you won’t believe what happened!!! (happy i promise) talk later? :)’

“Ev’rything okay?”

David’s head snapped up as Gwen rolled over and sat up on one elbow, brushing the curtain of tangles out of her eyes. “You leavin?” Her voice was thick and bleary with sleep, and he was torn between wanting to kiss her and to get her a glass of water.

“No! Not at all!” He held up his phone, feeling his face break into a sheepish, dopey grin. “Just . . . turning off my alarm so it doesn’t, uh, wake you up.”

“My hero,” she said, flopping onto her back and stretching. “How much time do we have?”

“Um . . .” His train of thought had been minorly derailed watching her move, but he dragged it back on track with a quick shake of his head. “Just about an hour!”

The corner of her mouth twitched and she glanced toward him. “You, uh, coming back then? Or are you getting dressed for a reason?”

He glanced down and felt his face flush. “O-oh! I’m not . . . I was . . . _can_ I come back?” he asked, looking up at her hopefully. (It was silly, of _course_ she’d let him return to bed . . . but what if she was hoping he’d leave? What if she hadn’t meant for him to stay the entire night?)

Gwen rolled her eyes, sitting up. “I mean, it’d be kinda hard to fuck from across the room. Not saying it’s impossible, but . . .” She trailed off, her expression shifting from wry amusement to concern. “Should I not have said that? We don’t have to, I didn’t mean . . . god, that was your first time too and I didn’t even — _shit_.” She groaned, resting her forehead on her knees. “I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t reply. It felt a little like he’d been punched in the lungs, because he hadn’t . . . he might’ve hoped _,_ but he’d halfway expected Gwen to tell him that this had been a mistake, or a curiosity she’d gotten out of her system, and the fact that she apparently wanted him still, wanted him _here_ —

She lifted her head, the look on her face scared and stricken and too much like last night, when she thought he was rejecting her. (And what a crazy idea, that he would ever. That he even could.) “Please tell me what you’re thinking, David.”

What he was thinking?

He was thinking he needed to text Julia and specify that they’d talk _much_ later.

He was thinking that he hoped the Quartermaster knew where they kept the sugar, since David was usually the one to set out the supplies.

He was thinking that if they expected to get away with this without getting caught, he’d have to find a way to tear himself away from her in the morning — afternoon, evening, every time he needed to go to the bathroom.

He was thinking that maybe keeping this a secret wasn’t going to be as simple as it’d seemed last night.

He was thinking that Mr. Campbell probably wouldn’t fire him if it _did_ get out.

He was thinking that maybe getting fired would be worth it.

He was thinking how wrong it was to think something like that this early in their . . . whatever this was.

He was thinking about how his thoughts seemed to scatter every time she shifted, her skin glowing warm with the pallid yellow sunlight streaking through the blinds, dark burgundy hair with flashes of strawberry and brown, and that she’d have to stop taking his breath away if he was going to get anything done around here.

He was thinking he wished he was better with words, like Gwen was.

He was thinking he wished he was better, _period._

And David couldn’t say any of that, not if he didn’t want her to think he was crazy — and he didn’t, he wanted her to like him and she deserved someone who had his life and his brain together and he really really wanted to be that someone — so he swallowed and said the first thing that came to mind: “I was thinking . . . what do you mean, not impossible?”

For a second she just stared at him in confusion, her forehead crinkling and her eyebrows drawing together. It was an expression he’d seen a thousand times, one he’d always secretly thought was cute. Then her eyes lit up and a slow grin spread across her face, an expression he hadn’t seen a thousand times yet but maybe . . . “Oh my god, that’s adorable.”

Despite the fact that he was pretty sure Gwen was making fun of him, he blushed and smiled down at his toes.

“Get over here.” Her voice was soft, more than he was used to. And he felt bad that he made her shy, but he loved that she apparently thought he was someone worth getting shy around.

“We probably shouldn’t,” he said, glancing at his watch with a sigh. (He still shuffled closer to the bed, though.) “If we . . . we wouldn’t have time to both shower before breakfast.”

Gwen’s hand snaked out and closed around his wrist, thumb gently swiping over the pulse thrumming there. “What if we just took one shower?”

His breath caught with a distressingly un-cool sound. She grinned at him and he cleared his throat loudly, scuffing his heels on the carpet. “Um, I wouldn’t . . . uh.”

If she’d just stop _looking_ at him, it’d be much easier to speak.

“I didn’t mean like that. Water wouldn’t hold out anyway.” (He hated to admit she was right; the number of times he’d been in the, ahem, _middle_ of something and the flow of water either petered to half strength or turned freezing — sometimes both — were too many to count.) “But I . . .” She paused just long enough for him to worry, and when he glanced over she was drawing the blanket up to her chest and avoiding his gaze. “I like being around you,” she admitted, her expression twisting like she was afraid he’d laugh at her.

He didn’t know how to explain that he’d wanted to hear her say something like that for almost three years — even before then, although not in quite the same context. So he just stepped forward and tugged her into a hug, because hugs always made him feel better.

She tensed, and he automatically loosened his grip so he wasn’t “strangling the life” out of her, but after a moment he felt the damp huff of a sigh against his chest and her arms wrapped around his back. Right now she was so different from Gwen the Camp Counselor, sleep-soft and cozy, and he wondered if it was just early-morning drowsiness or if something had fundamentally changed between them now, sanded down the places where they touched.

The thought was scary in a way he liked.

“So we have more time?” he pressed, inwardly cringing at his own impatience, but the sun was rising and there was only so much time before they had to go back out into the real world and — well, he considered himself a nice guy but he was still a _guy_ , after all, he wasn’t perfect and Gwen was pretty and naked and didn’t seem disgusted by his presence so . . .

She laughed softly, a sound he wasn't used to but was starting to love. “I mean, you're in charge of the itinerary, camp man.” She pulled back, batting her lashes at him. “ _Do_ we?”

* * *

  **Summer 2017**

David woke up sore, and too cold, and not in his bedroom. For a terrifying second he wondered if he’d been kidnapped, but then his mind caught up to his senses.

Right.

“Jesus, string bean, how’d you even get _up_ there?”

He jolted, nearly falling out of the tree he'd been using as a bed. He'd discovered this spot as a child, when he went to hide from the camp activities. He'd realized there was a small cradle where a couple branches crossed, and as he'd grown older it had gotten easier to recline in the space without worrying about falling through to the ground. He'd slept out in this tree a handful of times since becoming a counselor, but it'd been a couple summers since he’d been tempted to spend the night.

He just hadn’t been able to return to the cabin.

Once he was sure he wouldn't fall, he gingerly twisted around to peer down at Bonquisha, who was standing at the base of his tree with her head tilted back and a hand shielding her eyes. “Bon?” he asked, his voice cracking with disuse. “What're you doing here?”

“Get down here before I sprain my neck,” she called, putting her hands on her hips. As he scrambled out of the tree, she took a couple steps back and said, “You scared the shit out of a lotta people.”

The ground was farther than he'd expected, and his knees, weak and wobbly from sleep, buckled upon impact. Taking Bonquisha’s hand and letting her pull him to his feet, he glanced at his watch. It was just after 6 a.m., and the camp hadn't woken up yet. “How did you find me? Why are you . . . ?”

Bon pulled out her phone, swiping at it with her thumb without letting go of his hand. “Julia Winters is a persistent bitch,” she said, handing him the device. The Facebook app was open, and he saw with baffled amusement that his best friend had apparently tracked Bonquisha down and messaged her eight- — he scrolled down — -teen times. “You need to call her. She’s freaking out big-time.”

David patted at his shorts’ pockets until he found his own phone, which he’d turned off immediately after texting to the only three people he could think of, could stomach the thought of telling. The message was short, all he had in him: ‘gwen and i aren’t together anymore. i don’t want to talk about it. or anything right now.’ Then he’d shut the phone off and curled up in his tree branch nest, counting moonlit leaves until he fell asleep.

In retrospect, he could see how that text, followed by almost nine hours of silence, might’ve come across as alarming. He ran through the increasingly-anxious messages, noting with some shame the little red circle by his phone icon that told him he’d missed twelve calls. Most of them were from Julia, who’d also sent texts that started out angry (at Gwen) and proceeded to extremely angry (at him), before finally settling on murderously angry (at Gwen again).

The message from his mother was simple, but he could hear her voice in it and his chest constricted painfully:

He hadn’t meant to scare anyone. He just _couldn’t_. . .

The screen blurred and he wiped his face with his sleeve, trying to sniff as quietly as possible.

But Bon noticed. “I know, Dave,” she said, slinging an arm across his shoulders. “C’mon, let’s get outta here.”

“W-what?” David swiped at his nose one more time and peered up at her, confused. “But the camp . . .”

“It’s a Saturday, right? You don’t do shit on Saturdays, you’ve told me a thousand times.” (He most certainly hadn’t used those words, but he was touched she’d cared enough to remember his schedule.) “So tell whoever that y’out of commission and get in the car.”

He wanted to protest, but she was hard to argue with. Besides, he hadn’t exactly been looking forward to the day. “I — just give me a second.” Once Bonquisha had walked away a few feet, he shot off quick texts to his mother and Julia — ‘i’m okay, talk later’ — and opened up his conversations with QM.

‘can’t make breakfast today, sorry’

He paused a moment, then added, ‘tell gwen i’m taking the day off if she asks.’

He was trotting over to Bon’s car when his phone buzzed.

A hook emoji. Perfect.

* * *

**Summer 2016**

David ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, fumbling around his shirt drawer. The shower had taken a bit longer than expected, thanks to an unanticipated diversion (that he really should've seen coming as soon as “stand naked in a wet enclosed space with a painfully beautiful woman” had been added to the agenda, but foresight had never been one of his strengths), and he wouldn't have time for his morning smile exercises.

He knew Kennedy wouldn’t be disappointed in him, but he couldn't quite shake the feeling that he'd let her down.

Okay, no smile exercises. No mirror affirmations, either, or a before-breakfast dance party (that last one he’d _really_ rather Gwen never find out about). He opened the locked drawer by his bed and pulled out a small orange bottle. Glancing over his shoulder, he confirmed that Gwen was still getting dressed before shaking out a pill and swallowing it dry. Another quickly chased it, and he locked the drawer back up before climbing to his feet.

 _Took care of the essentials_ , he reminded himself, forcing a quick smile in the mirror — it didn’t count as a full exercise, but it was habit — and trying to hear Kennedy’s brisk, warm voice. _Everything else is just a bonus_.

He _liked_ the bonuses, sure; it felt good to pull out his journal and write down that he’d found time to do all the uplifting and calming tricks that made each day just a little easier to get through. The accomplishment was nice. But, well —

“Hey, David.” He turned just in time to be blinded by sunny yellow, his old camp shirt fluttering down over his head. “You left this in my room.”

“Thank you!” He carefully folded it along the now-worn creases that turned it into a bandana and tied it around his neck. Gwen watched him, her usually-bored glare somehow both softer and sharper than usual in a way that made him feel uncomfortably _observed_. She was dressed in the regular camp uniform, though it never seemed especially regular on her; the shirt that laid so boring and flat on him seemed to gain a new life on his coworker, rising and falling with each breath and movement in ways he studiously avoided noticing most of the time. Even the color seemed more vibrant, mossy green resonating so much prettier with copper than faintly-sunburnt peach.

— David had to admit that there were some fairly nice bonuses he was getting in exchange.

“I don’t wanna do anything today,” Gwen whined as he held the cabin door open for her. “It’s the weekend. Can’t we just watch Bob Ross or something? I’m in the mood for something artsy. _Without_ the kids,” she quickly added, as though she could read on his face the idea of hosting an impromptu Saturday Painting Camp. (Which . . . she probably could, since that had been the first thought in his mind.)

He wanted to remind her that it was important to engage the campers at every opportunity, but it was hard to focus on that when she was looking at him with genuine enthusiasm — _enthusiasm!_ For an activity! — and when she let her shoulder bump against his as he fell into step beside her. Those things were too distracting, his thoughts skittering ahead so that lecturing was forgotten by the time he opened his mouth. “I don’t think Mr. Campbell left us _Joy of Painting_ supplies in the budget,” he said, and when she grimaced he smiled and added, “Unless you’d like to steal from Art Camp, and I don’t think I can condone that.”

Gwen pursed her lips, giving him a quick sideways glance before turning her gaze forward again. “I’m thinking about it.”

She bumped his shoulder again, and that was all they said as they floated through the dreamy early-morning fog toward the Mess Hall.

* * *

**Summer 2017**

“She didn’t tell you?” David asked, feeling a bit like a baby duck as he followed Bonquisha down the aisles of the town’s small market. Bon had announced that what they both needed was breakfast, and that it’d keep his mind off of things if he made it (and had nothing, she insisted, to do with the fact that she hated cooking). “About . . . um.”

She shrugged, inspecting a grapefruit with the same suspicious gaze David always received from the Muffin Tops’ bouncer on the rare occasions he visited Bon at work. “We’re not that close.”

Mentioning Gwen even indirectly had made his chest hurt, but the fact that Bonquisha considered him a close friend took the edge off the sting. He turned his attention to that warm soft glow, smiling slightly as she selected two large fruit and led them onward, cutting through the thin Saturday-morning crowd with a grace and power that reminded him of a ship’s figurehead slicing through waves.

 _That’s a Gwen thought_.

The realization hit him like a bucket of cold water, and he wasn’t aware he’d slowed to a halt until Bon’s hand closed around his wrist. “Dave?”

“I . . .” He shook his head, giving her a weak smile and trying to pull himself back out into the bright white of the supermarket. “Um.”

He didn’t use metaphors; he had only a hazy idea what metaphors were, and that was thanks to four years of Gwen running Writing Camps. She’d once described his way of speaking as “woodsy” — natural and unornamented and green — and he’d made her write the description down because it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever imagined associated with himself.

He hadn’t adopted her way with words, not even close, but apparently just talking to her as much as he had this past year, he’d soaked up some faint echo of it, of her voice.

“Come on, string bean.” Bon tugged gently at his arm, drawing him along behind her as they weaved deeper into the store. “We’re almost outta here.”

* * *

  **Summer 2016**

“Here we go with my smaller tree, because I think he needs a friend.”

“I can’t believe you found extra art supplies,” Gwen muttered, glancing from the wavery blue-tinted screen to her canvas. Her expression was adorably intense, her tongue poking out and a smear of blue paint along the side of her nose. “I haven’t painted since college.”

David just smiled, deciding not to mention that he hadn’t exactly found _extra_ art supplies. But if he had to make a quick run to the store to pick up some paint, he’d be happy to take it out of his own paycheck.

“God, Bob, hurry _up_ ,” she whined, bouncing on the balls of her feet (not noticing that the movement splattered paint in tiny droplets that settled on her skin and clothes like mist). “I already painted the damn tree, let’s get a move on.”

“Not everyone’s as fast as you, Gwen.” His tree was a lot wobblier and less realistic than Gwen’s, but he was happy with it. The painting was the fun part, after all! “Why don’t you add something while you wait?”

She just groaned, tapping her brush impatiently while Bob Ross took a moment to explain to the viewers . . . something. It was hard to pay attention, because he’d gotten an idea and, in the split second her focus was drawn back to the screen, he leaned over and pecked her on the cheek (carefully avoiding any splotches of drying paint).

“Huh? What was that for?”

David shrugged, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. “Just passing the time!”

It wasn’t easy to paint more quickly than Gwen — and the result was getting increasingly sloppy and less like a mystical island — but every time he finished before Bob Ross moved on, he gave Gwen a kiss: on the ridge of her cheekbone, behind her ear, the corner of her mouth, her eyebrow. Every time she scoffed and batted at the air in his direction, but her nervous energy had been redirected. Instead of impatiently waiting for the next instructions, she kept glancing sideways at him, her body tensing and her mouth twitching as she tried to figure out the pattern.

After five or ten minutes she snorted, pointing her paintbrush at him (and getting a dot of white paint on her bare foot in the process). “You fucking showoff.”

“What’re you talking about?” he asked, focusing on dotting his waves with light, fluffy foam — that looked like marshmallows, but that was fun, too! — because he couldn’t meet her gaze. If he looked over at her he’d . . . well, probably get distracted, to be perfectly honest, but she could also read his eyes way too well not to realize he was teasing her.

“I can paint fast too, you jerk.” In a second she’d splashed her canvas and darted to his side. But she didn’t peck him on the cheek; her lips closed around his earlobe, her teeth gently scraping his skin and her breath ghosting over his ear. It lasted less than a second, but when she pulled away David had to bite his lip to keep his knees steady.

He continued working numbly, his earlobe still damp and sending little shivers down into his fingers.

His painting was going to be a mess.

But he could feel Gwen radiating smugness, and while he didn’t consider himself terribly competitive, he didn’t want to let her throw him off that easily. So it became a race, a rainbow-smeared rush of paint, and he held his own, he thought — in part because he loved the squint-eyed, frustrated pout that crossed her face every time he won. It was an expression he usually only saw when she was writing, or on the rare occasions she did yoga: disappointment, but the kind that only came from doing something she loved. The idea that _he_ was worthy of that pleasantly irritated face squeezed at his heart, and for a split second he fumbled with the brush, smudging his tree into a too-dark blob.

The delay was just enough time for Gwen to finish her own not-blob pine. “Eat shit, Greenwood!” The language didn’t bother him, partly because there weren’t any campers around but mostly because it sparked and crackled under his skin — made worse as her mouth pressed against his cheekbone, just missing his nose.

David turned his head instinctively towards her and she froze, her breath catching in a sudden cool rush against his cheek. Before he could worry that he’d messed up, ruined the moment or ruined her fun, her lips found his, her hand cupping his jaw to hold him still. He relaxed into the kiss, letting his shoulders slump and his mind shut off until he was only aware of where they touched — her fingers skating up his jaw and tangling in his hair, her tongue tapping at his bottom lip to encourage him to open his mouth, the featherlight brush of her thigh through the old clothes they were using as smocks.

Gosh, he could do this forever.

Well . . . not exactly. His legs had already been a little wobbly, and the combination of nerves and a sudden rush of blood in his ears made him dizzy. Without pulling away from Gwen, he fumbled behind him with one hand, finding the padded arm of his chair and sinking down on it. As soon as he was settled he reached for her again, his fingers almost catching a few times on her shirt before successfully hooking onto her waist and dragging her closer.

She pulled back with another quiet laugh — and _wowzers_ , he was halfway convinced he’d die for that laugh. “Grabby hands,” she said in response to his confusion. But he didn’t understand that either, so she held up her hands, opening and closing them. “You were . . . ugh, never mind.” She shook her head. “You’re cute,” she explained, bending down to bump her forehead gently against his.

Sitting down, he was shorter than she was, and had to tilt his head back to kiss her. There was something strangely vulnerable about her looming over him, cradling his face in her hands and staring at him with eyes that were startlingly, almost inhumanly purple — _Elizabeth Taylor eyes_ , his mother had said the first time she'd seen Gwen — but up close had tiny shards of silver and blue and even dark yellowish-black, colors blended together into violet so neatly he wouldn’t have imagined they were in there at all. Secret, almost invisible, like the spray of tiny freckles that dotted her nose and shoulders. Like the shadows left on her cheekbones when her eyes dropped closed, thanks to thick, dark eyelashes that he’d thought for months were caused by makeup but had slowly realized were natural, like she’d been born perfect.

Proximity _really_ suited her.

Her eyes opened suddenly and they both jerked back in surprise. “Were you staring at me while we made out?” she asked, enough of a smirk in her voice to buoy up his confidence, so that instead of apologizing he just shrugged and grinned. “You creep.”

He couldn’t help it, he wanted to explain. He was still reeling with the dizzying sensation of having something he’d wanted for so long that he’d almost grown numb to its constant ache. And now that he had permission, the idea of backing off — of _not_ taking almost shameful advantage of the privilege to look and touch and soak up every gorgeous drop of Gwen he’d trained himself for years to ignore — was impossible.

She bent her head to kiss him again, then paused. “I’m not . . . like, being too pushy, am I?” Her hands loosened their hold on his head, like she was preparing to pull away. “I didn’t even ask —”

David’s hands covered hers instinctively, pressing her palms back against his skin. “No no, it’s fine! Although, ah . . .” He trailed off as her expression darkened with worry and quickly added, “I think we’re a little behind in our painting now.”

Gwen unsuccessfully bit back a snort, turning her head toward the television; he took the opportunity to kiss the spot just under her ear and tried not to feel smug at the way she shivered. “Eh, it’s probably just the same bullshit,” she replied, her voice dropping to a murmur as she turned back toward him, drawing closer until their noses were tucked against each other. “We’ll throw a couple more clouds or something on it and be all caught up.”

He nodded, thinking less about Bob Ross and more about how her eyes bled together into a single one this close up, and how that cyclops eye felt big and deep enough to fall into.

A tiny shadow flickered across her face, and she pulled back, her gaze dropping to his chest. “I got paint on your shirt.”

“Oh?” He glanced down and smiled at the streaks of color. She hadn’t only gotten his clothes; he felt his grin crack a glob of mostly-dried paint on his jaw, a small sting as it stuck in his hairline. “It’s okay! That’s what these clothes are for.”

“Yeah.” She nodded, gnawing on her lower lip thoughtfully as she fingered the paint-smeared fabric. “I’m still sorry, though.” He opened his mouth to tell her she didn’t need to apologize and she added, “But I mean, if you took this off we wouldn’t have to worry about that, right? I could touch you all I wanted.” It must’ve taken him a second too long to react — in his defense, his mind had kicked into overdrive with a thousand thoughts tripping over each other — because she quickly added, “If that’s cool with you. I like painting too, I just . . . yeah. Never mind.”

David _did_ like painting. Loved it, in fact; it ranked just below camping on the list of things he enjoyed more than anything else in life.

But . . . well.

He reached behind him and snagged at his collar, tugging his shirt over his head before she could draw self-consciously away again.

Since last night, that list had been a bit reshuffled to make room for Gwen.

* * *

**Summer 2017**

“I thought you two were crazy about each other,” Bonquisha said, appreciatively eyeing the stack of pancakes he set on her small Formica table. “Y’were so cute it was making me gag.”

Right. He’d gotten a bit of a reprieve while they were cooking, the conversation mostly centering around Bon and how she’d spent the year. David wouldn’t say he’d _intentionally_ avoided talking about himself, but hearing about her new boyfriend and the ever-entertaining stories from Muffin Tops was a lot easier than the alternative.

But of course she’d be curious. And it wasn’t like he could get away from it forever. “I . . . thought so too.” He took a seat across from her, watching nervously as she took a bite. Once she smiled, he relaxed and continued, “Everything seemed to be going so well until . . .” He paused, suddenly feeling sick.

Oh.

“Until I visited her in New York.”

Oh, _no_.

How had he never made that connection before? Because it made agonizing sense, didn’t it, that such a disastrous weekend had led her to decide she didn’t —

Bon twirled her fork at him, encouraging him to continue. “Yeah, so? Walk me through the story, string bean. I’m coming in in the middle here.”

“Jeez, where should I begin?” He laughed bitterly. “Her parents think I'm a deadbeat, her brothers think I'm a pedophile, I punched a stranger and did drugs . . .” His shoulders slumped. “Golly. Maybe I _am_ a loser.”

“Come on, Dave.” She reached forward and put her hand on top of his. “You aren’t a loser. Hell, most of that shit makes you sound cooler.” He could hear the smile in her voice but couldn’t bring himself to return it. “You don’t really think something that small could ruin things, do you? When she liked you that much? You really that stupid?”

She was trying to cheer him up, he _knew_ she was, but . . . it hit just a bit too close to home for his already-frayed and overworked nerves.

 _“Yes!"_ he snapped, pulling his hand back and pushing his chair away from the table. "That's the _point!_ ” Still in the air, his fingers curled into frustrated claws, before his expression fell and so did his arms, and he slumped back in his seat. “I'm not smart. I didn't go to college, I don't think about things as deeply as she does, I'm not as — as experienced, I'm n-not — not what she —" His voice cracked and he covered his face with his hands, a small choked wet sound escaping through his fingers.

He _was_ stupid.

He was so, so _stupid_.

“Oh, stringbean.” David couldn’t look up, so the sudden feeling of Bon’s arms around him was startling. Startling, but comforting; he let himself go limp, let her support his weight.

All of a sudden he just felt so tired _._

He didn’t know how long it took for him to wear himself out, to sob all the hurt feelings he’d been holding in all day — for weeks — for months. But once he’d started to taper off into small hitched breaths, his eyes feeling hot and tight like his skin had shrunk, she murmured, “Gloomy’s been keepin’ me outta the loop I guess, but for what it’s worth she always seemed . . .”

“Unhappy?” he finished, his stomach sinking even further. Unhappy with him?

“Hurt.” She frowned at him, squeezing his hand. “Listen to Bonquisha, all right? I know people. I know what broken looks like, and if she isn’t totally fucked up, she’s close to it. Whatever’s goin on in there ain’t got nothing to do with you.”

* * *

**Summer 2016**

These beds really weren’t large enough for two people. They were hardly large enough for _one_ person, but there’d never been enough in the budget to even consider bringing it up to Mr. Campbell. And right now David couldn’t help but be relieved that the narrow twin beds forced them to lay half on top of each other with their legs tangled together.

She was picking at the paint that had dried in his hair and on his skin, rainbow fingerprints only slightly more temporary than the spit-slick hickey cooling just below his collarbone (and just as much a sign of being claimed, not that he’d ever say that out loud). “How’s your head?” she asked, scraping her fingernail at a splotch below his bandage with a gentleness he wasn’t used to.

“Never had any complaints.” The words slipped out through drowsy lips, and it took a few seconds for him to realize what he’d said. He sat up so fast Gwen’s nail — which had frozen, along with the rest of her — glanced off his eyebrow and drew a short stinging line of unbroken skin down the side of his face. She was watching him with wide eyes, eyebrows raised and her mouth slightly open. "I-I am _so_ sorry, I don't know what came over me, I didn't mean to—"

“Oh my god." Her voice was low and thick with what he suspected was a laugh about to bubble over but was held off by surprise — and as thrilled as he would be to make her laugh under normal circumstances, the crudeness and immaturity of the circumstances were unacceptable, inappropriate and unbecoming and he’d tried so hard to prove he was a good guy, a nice person, and — “Oh my _fucking_ god.”

"It's — ! It's something Bonquisha says, and I just . . . wasn't thinking . . ."

"Oh my _god_.”

David let out a small noise distressingly close to a squeak and buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him. (Well, no he didn’t. Because if that happened he wouldn’t be sitting in the same bed as Gwen, and her hand wouldn’t be on his arm and her thigh wouldn’t be brushing against his — and no amount of shame was enough to give those things up.)

She was quiet for a moment, drawing light circles around the mark on his collarbone with her thumb. “No complaints, huh?” she said softly, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“Um.”

“I mean, you haven’t had anyone _to_ complain about it, right?”

Oh, dear. He was glad his face was hidden, though he was sure she could feel how warm it had gotten. He nodded, though he probably didn’t have to — his inexperience was obvious.

“Mm.” Another gentle kiss, this one just above his breastbone. “Doesn’t really count, then,” she murmured, her lips moving down, painting fire in a steady line down his chest — a chest he wished was fuller, stronger, more manly or _something_ — and he lowered himself onto his elbows; there were some hints even _he_ could take.

His answer shattered as she nipped at the skin just below his belly button, not hard enough to leave a mark (and _oh_ did he want her to leave any mark she felt like on him) but enough to steal his breath, turn his exhale into a pained wheeze. Her lips twitched, and David realized with a jolt that she was doing that on purpose. Trying to render him speechless, like she thought it was funny to watch him squirm and lose focus . . .

Another long, damp kiss to his hipbone and he decided that was fine by him. Flopping onto his back, he fumbled forward and found one of her hands, tangling his fingers with hers. “Gwen . . .”

“You know,” she said, as though she hadn’t heard him, was unaware of the fact that he was melting into a needy puddle beneath her, “ _I’ve_ never had any complaints either.” Her mouth moved inward, less than a finger’s width but it felt like a mile to nerves that’d very suddenly come online, and she rested her cheek on his thigh. “And there’ve been a lot of people who could’ve.” A shadow flicked across her face, and the part of his brain still capable of rational thought wondered if it was the number of people she’d been with that bothered her, or who they were. Neither of those things mattered to him, but he felt a knee-jerk surge of nauseated anger at anything or anyone that could make her eyes dull like that. Before he could ask, she trailed her free hand down his stomach, her expression returning to normal — normal, with a touch of evil that made his stomach lurch in the best way. “Think you’ll have any?”

He’d had a lot of female friends in high school — almost exclusively, in fact — and they’d given him plenty of advice, seen him as a project of sorts. Scraps of that advice flitted through his mind in a second: _play hard to get, turn the tables, if you can make something into a dirty joke do it, challenge them_ . And he wanted to follow their advice, but he also really really wanted her to do whatever she was implying with that look and that tone and the way her breath skated over his skin, warm chased by cool and both making him shiver. And if this came down to anything resembling a battle of wills he would fold like a piece of paper, because when she was watching him like she wanted to — goodness, like she wanted to _eat_ him . . . he didn't have much fight in him.

 _Thud thud thud._ “Gven? Are you zhere?”

She froze, her eyes flicking up to his; they shared a wordless agreement and stayed quiet. It wasn’t that David _disliked_ Dolph — though there was something about the child that he called “misguided” and Gwen called “super fucking creepy” — but neither of them knew how to deal with him. And on a Saturday, their official day off . . . when his co-counselor was smirking at him with the devil in her eyes and her lips inches away from —

 _Thud thud thudthudthudthud thud._ “Are you avake, Gven? It’s important _und_ I can’t find David!”

She groaned and pushed herself up, climbing out of bed and scrambling into the clothes strewn over the floor. “Just a sec!” she called, then threw David’s shirt at him. “Get out of here!” she hissed.

Of course, he shouldn’t be found alone in her room, but as he tugged his clothes on he realized that there weren’t exactly any places to hide. For someone with so few possessions, Gwen was a heavy packer, and under her bed was too full for him to fit — as was the closet, and although maybe he could squeeze under her desk . . .

He was interrupted from his increasingly-panicked thoughts by a bundle of yellow smacking lightly into his temple with a _poof_ before settling on his shoulder. Plucking his bandana up and tying it around his neck, he watched as Gwen dashed, fully clothed, across the room and threw open the window. “Come on, you’re skinny, it’s fine . . .” With impatient muttered encouragement, she ushered him over and practically shoved him outside. Once he’d regained his footing on the uneven grass, she snagged the front of his shirt and tugged him into a rough kiss. “Get rid of _that_ —” her eyes flicked down and he flushed, yanking at the hem of his shorts fruitlessly, “— and help me deal with whatever bullshit. Pretend you were on a walk or something, okay?”

David barely had a chance to nod before she’d pressed her lips against his once more, again almost punishingly hard, before shoving him backward and closing the window. He watched as she crossed to the bedroom door, and barely managed to duck out of sight before she opened it.

“What’s up, kid?” Although her voice was gruff with exasperation and frustration, he couldn’t help but smile at the almost-affectionate way she addressed the campers. Familiar in a sisterly way, or like a beleaguered aunt — and while he didn’t approve of her tendency to swear around the children, it always warmed his heart how she spoke to them. (It was something of a relief as well, to be able to rely on her to say the things he wouldn’t. Cathartic, in a way.)

He was shaken from his brief distraction by Dolph’s voice: “Max _und_ Nurf are by ze storage shed, taking bets on who can throw knives closest to Space Kid vithout hitting him, _und_ I —” He was cut off by a shouted curse and pounding footsteps, then a slammed door, a steady string of muttered profanity fading as she sprinted toward the latest camptastrophe.

David closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Then he slumped back against the cabin, drawing his hands to his chest and tilting his face to the sun.

Today didn’t feel real. Today couldn’t _be_ real.

But the warmth on his face was real, warmth from the baking air seeping into his clothes and hair and skin. And there was warmth of a different kind glowing punch-pink in his chest, and an altogether _different_ warmth, a kind that was familiar and at the same time entirely new because it was the result of Gwen; after years of turning his eyes and his thoughts away from her before they sparked this kind of tickling, frustrating longing, he was allowed to look at her because she wanted him the same way he’d always wanted her and that was dizzying, and —

And this was a very bad situation. The campers could be very seriously hurt, Gwen could get very seriously hurt, and he needed to stop being so happy because it was inappropriate to feel this wonderful when there was a for-real crisis going on, and if he could just . . . get serious . . .

It took a few minutes to wrestle the smile off his face and force himself into a reasonable facsimile of calm and collected, and by the time he jogged into the clearing, Gwen was wrapping things up. He’d snagged a drawer-shaped wooden box from the supply shed as a way to kill time, and Gwen dumped the knives she’d already confiscated into it with a small sigh of relief, looking her hands and arms over to make sure she hadn’t cut herself. Leaving her to continue collecting the weapons from the campers — she was better at it; for some reason they were much less likely to stab her — he hurried over to where Space Kid had been lashed to the archery target.

“These knots are very well-tied!” he called over to Gwen, who rolled her eyes. And it was true that he shouldn’t be so proud of their survival skills, but if they learned just a single thing from Camp Campbell, he’d consider it a summer well spent.

That being said . . . “I’m very disappointed in all of you,” he told the assembled campers once Space Kid was freed, putting his hands on his hips and frowning. “You could’ve really gotten hurt!”

“Yeah, but we _didn’t_ ,” Ered said dismissively, tossing her hair out of her eyes. That . . . was a little worrying, since she wasn’t usually a source of difficulty for them. Maybe Max was having a bad influence? (No, of course not! She probably just got wrapped up in the spirit of things. He knew what it was like being a camper, after all!)

“That’s no excuse —” he began.

Gwen drew up alongside him, shoving the box into his chest. “Seriously guys, you’re not getting dessert for the rest of the month,” she snapped, drawing loud groans from the kids.

David frowned. “Are you sure? That seems a _little_ harsh —”

“David, they could’ve killed someone!” Her arm landed protectively on top of Space Kid’s domed helmet, and he wondered if she was aware that she’d drawn him closer to her side, until one of his rubber boots brushed against her bare toes. She glared over at the edge of the activities field, where Nerris and Harrison were standing shoulder-to-shoulder despite deliberately not looking at each other — or at Gwen. “They know better.”

Space Kid looked down at their feet, then up at Gwen. “Why aren’t you wearing shoes, Gwen?”

“I was in a hurry,” she muttered, gently pushing him back. “This is _supposed_ to be my day off.” David wasn’t confident, but he thought she might’ve been blushing.

He coughed lightly, covering his mouth with his fist to hide a smile. This was a serious situation, after all. “Gwen, why don’t you go put those in the safe and I’ll give the kiddos a quick chat about safety?”

She rolled her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching as she stepped closer to take the heavy box. “Don’t take too long. We’ve still gotta take care of your head.”

His response caught in his throat, and her smirk grew for a split second before settling back into her general expression, which sat somewhere between bored and irritated. (She called it “resting bitch face,” but he saw so much more than that; there were a hundred tiny tics and tremors that made her thoughts clearer than she knew. Gwen wasn’t exactly an open book, but after a couple of years she’d gotten easier to read.)

Luckily none of the campers were paying attention, and the few moments it took to recover went unnoticed. “I’ll just be a minute!” he replied, banishing the slight wobble in his voice with his sunniest smile, because now wasn’t the time. _Pure thoughts, camping thoughts, what would Mr. Campbell do?_

There was a part of him that had a suspicion he knew _exactly_ what Mr. Campbell would do, but that wasn’t helpful at the moment so he pushed it aside. It was time to _campe diem_ , even if _campe_ -ing _diem_ meant having the third talk of the summer about why throwing knives wasn’t allowed outside of Knife-Throwing Camp, which none of them had signed up for.

“All right, kiddos, Gwen’s right! That was very dangerous, and you know better! Someone could’ve gotten seriously hurt.” The lecture was familiar for him as well as the campers, and it took special effort not to let his own eyes glaze over as he went over the details: they were a family and had to take care of each other, camp was about learning responsibility, knives were not toys . . .

All very true and important, but in that moment not as pressing as the new softness on Gwen’s face when she looked at him, or the fire behind her eyes when she was really angry — a light that hadn’t gone out when she’d teased him but only changed color somewhat, grown darker with something he couldn’t name . . . at least, couldn’t name in connection with himself, as something he inspired in anyone.

_“Motherfucker!”_

David whipped around, opening his mouth to remind his co-counselor to watch her language, but the words died at the sight of her sitting in the packed dirt, clutching her foot. Knives had clattered from the box in a messy semicircle around her, like she’d performed some sort of deadly rain-dance, but only one of them was sticking up, half-buried from scuffing feet and tacky with blood.

“Gwen!” He rushed forward, kneeling at her side and snatching the strewn knives before any of the campers could take advantage of the distraction to steal one. Ignoring a few glancing white pricks of pain as he awkwardly dumped the knives back into their box, he craned forward until his chest was almost touching the dirt to get a better look. “Oh my gosh, are you okay? Can you walk? Do you need a tetanus shot? I think there are a couple in the Quartermaster’s Store left over from Chainsaw Juggling Camp — _this is exactly what I was talking about!”_ he snapped over his shoulder at the kids, distantly aware that he was panicking. His thoughts kept scattering, dead leaves under a heavy wind, and try as he might he couldn’t rake them together for more than a few seconds.

Gwen was hurt.

Gwen _never_ got hurt. At least, not seriously.

Gwen was the one who helped when _other_ people got hurt.

_Calm down, David. What would Mr. Campbell do?_

Right. Mr. Campbell was a hero. He wouldn’t panic, not when there were things to be done! David took a deep breath, feeling calmer and more confident (and considerably hairier) already. “It’s going to be fine, Giselle,” he said, injecting as much boom into his voice as possible.

“What the —”

He scooped her up and climbed to his feet, bundling her against his chest with a small sigh of relief. Under all the Mr. Campbell and half-buried worry, there was a part of him that was just happy to touch her again. “Whoever carries that box to the Mess Hall gets their dessert back.” There was a sudden scramble, and in the end Preston and Nikki ended up hauling the confiscated knives into the main hall — with David trailing close behind, watching carefully to make sure neither of them slipped a souvenir or two into their pockets. “Thanks, campers!” he called, setting Gwen on one of the tables and waving the kids out of the building so he could unlock the safe in peace.

Once that was done he hurried into the kitchen to wash his hands — _Mr. Campbell, calm, everything’s fine_ — then to the Quartermaster’s Store for the first- and second-aid kits, and then back into the kitchen to wash his hands again. The entire time he was aware of a prickling-under-his-skin that skated up and down his back, a panic attack kept at bay with two shaking hands because Gwen was the one who did this kind of thing, she was prone to breakdowns but not when it mattered, not like him not when someone was hurt she could’ve been seriously hurt someone could’ve _died_ —

“Are you okay?” Gwen called, leaning back on her elbows to see him through the small window between the kitchen and main room of the Mess Hall. “You seem kinda —”

“Just fine, ah . . .” Dang it, he was having trouble thinking of another name starting with G.

And with that, he felt his control slipping away.

David set the aid kits on the table with a too-loud noise that made him wince, popping them both open and rifling through the contents. Step one was to stop the bleeding, then clean the wound — or was it clean and then stop bleeding? He’d taken six years of both Aid Camps, for pete’s sake! Not to mention the number of times he’d run them . . . though Gwen had taken over that responsibilty, once she’d been hired. Gosh, maybe he’d forgotten all of it. Maybe they needed to set up a rotating schedule so that —

“David.” His head was tugged to the side, until Gwen’s face filled his vision and his forehead _tupp_ ed lightly against hers. Keeping her hands on either side of his face, she swiped her thumbs along his cheekbones, tracing two sticky smears of blood and dirt but wiping his brain clean of the buzzing panicked shrieking in the back of his head. “It’s okay.”

He wanted to close his eyes, relish the warmth of her hands and forehead and small sweet puffs of breath against his mouth, and soak up the comfort and gentleness she so rarely offered up to anyone.

But that wasn’t fair. Gwen was hurt. _She_ needed to be comforted, and patched up, and taken care of.

It was his job to take care of her, as the person sort-of in charge of this camp. As her CBFL.

As her . . . whatever he was.

He pulled back, pecking her on the forehead and smiling, the special smile he used to push back worries and dark thoughts and all sorts of things that weren’t helpful. “I know it is!” he told them both. “Everything’s great.”

* * *

**Summer 2017**

He’d put it off for long enough, and would’ve been happy putting it off even longer but Bonquisha had a date with some guy, Jacob something, he should’ve been paying attention but he wasn’t, and she couldn’t sit there and take care of him forever.

Besides, the longer he kept Julia waiting, the angrier she’d be.

He asked Bonquisha to pull up around to the back of the cabin, figuring that the less he had to walk through the camp and risk seeing

_(Gwen the campers Gwen)_

anyone the better. And the sight of the Camp Campbell flagpole poking up over the roof of the cabin made him smile and salute like it always did, and it felt a bit like something important had been resettled, a plate of armor slotting back where it belonged. A nice long hug from Bon and he was starting to think things really would work out, sooner and less painfully than he’d imagined.

That feeling lasted until he slipped in through the cabin’s rarely-used back entrance, wincing as the hinges squealed indignantly. That was when he caught sight of Gwen’s glossy magazines sprawled over the common room table, vivid colors and heavy-lidded pouting and phrases that he couldn’t quite make sense of, like a language he’d only half-learned. And there was nothing special about them except that they were _hers_ , and they were _her_ , and that meant they were something he didn’t have any right looking at anymore — and for a second his vision doubled and swam.

David steadied himself against the wall, half a second at most, and before his world stopped looking like a funhouse mirror he staggered into his room, closing the door a little louder than he’d meant to and resting his forehead against the humid-sticky wood.

Breathing.

Breathing that felt like desperately sucking air through a straw, but breathing. God, this was hard already and he had the sinking suspicion it wouldn’t get easier.

His pocket vibrated, accompanied by the dim little chime of an incoming phone call. Still leaning against the door — standing felt like so much work, and his limbs each seemed like a hundred pounds all of a sudden — he tapped on the small square icon of Julia’s face and braced himself.

“You son of a bitch, what the fuck were you _thinking?!”_

He sighed, pushing off the door and shuffling to his desk chair. “Hi, Jules.”

“Don’t fucking give me that, Davey! Do you have _any_ goddamn idea how fucking scared I was? I almost got on a fucking plane to go up to that piece-of-shit camp to make sure you were okay, so don’t you _dare_ fucking act like everything’s —”

Normally David hated being yelled at, and on the few occasions when Julia had gotten truly mad at him it’d been everything he could do to keep from crying. But for some reason, even though there was a part of him that for the entire day had been one sad song away from a total breakdown, all he felt in that moment was fury. “Everything’s _what_ , Jules? Because I darn well hope you weren’t going to say ‘fine’!” She fell silent, and the twist in his gut was a sick kind of pleasure. He hated fighting with anyone, let alone the closest thing he’d ever had to a sister, but at the same time there was so much roiling inside of him that he had to do something to let it out. “But _sure,_  let’s focus on how hard today has been for _you_ , having to go twelve whole hours being a little worried. I’m sure it was _terrible —”_

“A _little_ worried?! David, you have no idea what I’ve been going through over here!”

Suddenly energized again, he pushed his chair back and started pacing, untying his bandana and crumpling it in one fist. “I’m sorry I didn’t feel like chatting,” he snapped, nearly falling on his face as he tried to step out of his boots without stopping to untie them, “but not everything can be about you.”

Her voice shot up a few pitches the more upset she got, and at that it went into a painful register. “This isn’t about me! I was worried about _you!_ I’ve been freaking out!”

He rolled his eyes, something he was sure he hadn’t done in years, and flopped onto his bed. “Yeah, well, my mom was worried too, but she didn’t call me three hundred times and harass my friends! Because I guess _she_ understands —”

_“Your mom doesn’t know how bad it could’ve gotten!”_

David froze.

All his rage turned cold and leaden in his chest, guilt and shock spreading icy fingers in a starburst shape centered around his heart. “Oh.” It came out like a choke, the involuntary wheeze of someone punched in the lungs.

She replied with a sob that brought him back ten years, to stroking her hair as they sat on the dock and watched the ambulance (too late, much much too late) drive away with their best friend — and to a few months later, when they’d both gone home and he was alone, clutching an older phone stolen from his mother, clinging even harder to the shaky voice of the only person he’d felt like he could confide in when his toes were dangerously close to nothing but one hundred feet of air.

He sat up slowly, switching the phone to his other ear like exhaustion was the reason his hand had started to shake. “I forgot.”

“I’m glad,” she said with a bitter laugh. “I can’t.”

He wanted to explain that this wasn’t fair, that things were different now. That he’d been fourteen and scared and his dad had just left, that Jasper hadn’t even been in the ground three months and that he hadn’t met Kennedy and there was no monthly prescription for him yet. That she didn’t need to worry about him doing something stupid and reckless like that ever again, because he’d promised and because so much had changed since that frostbitten night, that there were no tall bridges sucking his feet over to the edge and there weren’t going to be.

But if fears were that easy to quiet, he wouldn’t need the small pill bottles currently hiding in his bedside table.

Julia took a deep, shuddering breath. “I always answer the phone when it’s you,” she continued, and he wanted more than anything to change the subject, but he also knew that sometimes it was better to just let someone keep talking until the poison was out. “No matter what time it is. I _have_ to answer it, because I don’t — don’t know what would’ve happened if I hadn’t, and part of me always thinks I’m gonna pick up and it’s gonna be . . . you — the sound of your voice, like it was already over, like I was talking to a ghost . . .”

_I’m scared, Julia._

David squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to remember.

He’d done a very good job of forgetting, thank you very much.

_Everyone leaves. No matter what I do, I can’t make anyone stay._

“I’m okay,” he murmured into the phone — realized he _had_ been saying that for who knew how long, repeating the words like they meant anything. “I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got help. I haven’t felt like that in years, and I . . . I don’t feel like that now.”

_What’s wrong with me? What good am I if everyone keeps leaving?_

“I mean it.”

_Why am I even here?_

“I promise, I won’t ever scare you like that again.”

_Jules, I’m so scared._

_I don’t want to die._

“Okay? We’re okay, right?”

 _I just don’t want to feel like this anymore_.

For a few seconds all he could hear were Julia’s hiccuping breaths returning to normal. Then: “I know, Sunshine. We’re okay. I just — can’t stop _thinking_ —”

“I know.” He had that problem, too.

“You almost weren’t okay.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. “I know,” he replied, his voice rough.

“I love you, Davey,” she said with a small self-conscious laugh, one he couldn’t help but echo because something about this situation was so patently ridiculous that it almost shook the lump from the back of his throat.

“I love you too.”

And like that, something clicked back into place, and for a moment they just sat there, giggling breathless laughter that had tears skating just behind. The laughter of people who’d just survived a shipwreck, whose feet had brushed disaster but had been pulled away just in time.

“Hey,” Julia said finally. “I need a hug, don’t you?”

David smiled, already climbing off his bed. This was a silly ritual, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel better. “I’m getting Woody.”

His stuffed log had fallen beneath his bed, and he brushed the dust off its spandex surface with a whispered apology, holding the phone away so Julia wouldn’t hear. Returning to his place on the bed, kicking his sheets away and leaning back against the headboard, he lightly tossed Woody into the air one-handed, listening to the plastic beads inside jingle and waiting for the go-ahead.

“All right.” She was slightly out of breath, which made him wonder what kind of 25-year-old _didn’t_ have a stuffed animal in easy reach. “Hug transfer in three, two, one . . .”

He closed his eyes — partly to imagine he was hugging his best friend instead of a stuffed log custom-ordered by his mom, and partly because it made him feel less self-conscious — and drew his legs up to his chest, cradling Woody gently. (It was almost nine years old, and he was painfully aware of how thin the material had gotten in places.)

It wasn’t the same as a real hug, but it made him feel a little less alone.

“You know,” Julia replied, her words slow and deliberate in a way that could only mean trouble, “I live in New York. I could just . . . like, hit her next time we’re both in the city.”

He snorted, shaking his head as though she could see him. It was strange, wanting to cry but also impossibly tempted to smile — a feeling that almost made him feel guilty.

“Just one little punch in the face, what do you say? One whack and then I’ll be good.”

“Sounds like what I told my priest in middle school,” he mumbled, again feeling that thick bubbling giggliness even as his eyes pricked with tears.

For a second she was stunned into silence. “Wow. You _really_ don’t wanna talk about this.”

“I . . . huh?”

“Davey, I can count the number of dirty jokes you’ve ever made on both hands, and at least half of those were you trying to shock someone into changing the subject.”

David wished she couldn’t read him quite so well. “S’fine, really.”

She didn’t say anything, and he sighed.

“She — almost slept with someone else.” And he’d thought it’d been hard to hear but having to _say_ it was a brand new kind of torture, making him double over and press his forehead to Woody. The soft, smooth surface felt like the echo of a kiss. “Sh-she didn’t say when but that must be why she’s been so distant and I asked what was wrong like an _idiot_ ” — because if he hadn’t asked he wouldn’t be sitting alone in his bed; he might be miserable and confused but he’d be miserable and confused in Gwen’s arms and that was a whole heck of a lot better than being miserable and confused all by himself — “ahh-hhhand she told me, she said dating me was a mistake and a bad decision and —”

He ran out of air, sudden and violent, and for a moment his lungs convulsed desperately before something gave way, relaxing his muscles enough to take a large, unsteady breath.

He wasn’t going to cry.

There was no reason why he shouldn’t, of course; there was no one here and it wasn’t like Jules would judge him — besides, it wasn’t like he was a stranger to crying — but there was something, some strange sense of pride that twisted his insides like a wrung-out towel and kept whispering that he wasn’t going to cry because he wasn’t yet that pathetic, that crying all that time was probably part of why Gwen couldn’t stand him anymore, that whoever she’d almost — that guy probably didn’t cry watching Disney movies or make flower crowns with the younger campers or have a stuffed log toy or any of the thousands of things that’d earned him nicknames like _fairy_ and _pussy_ in high school and what if Gwen thought of him like that — too kind to say those words to his face but there had to be some reason, some lack, some _thing wrong_ and maybe it wasn’t just that he wasn’t manly and impressive like Mr. Campbell, like his father, but it certainly _could be_ and so he wouldn’t — h-he couldn’t —

“Oh, Davey,” Julia murmured, and the softness in her voice was too much.

He put his head on his knees and cried.

* * *

**Summer 2016**

“There we go!” David said with carefully exaggerated cheer, smoothing his thumb over the cut to smear on a thick layer of greasy disinfectant. “Like riding a bicycle!”

And it was, more or less; sure, his hands were still a little shaky and he occasionally had to look away from the glistening red stripe running down Gwen’s arch — take a few deep breaths to calm his queasy stomach — but he’d never been bad at first aid, always perfectly competent. And even under the circumstances there’d been something quietly thrilling about holding her small perfect foot in his lap, balancing her heel on his thigh and gingerly wiping away the blood and the dirt until it was soft and clean and scrubbed slightly pink.

Gwen was leaning back on her hands, watching him with narrowed eyes. “David, are you sure you’re okay? You seem a little . . .” Sitting up, she gestured vaguely with one arm — a light fluttery motion.

“Of course, Gwen! I’m just fine.” To punctuate the statement, he tugged a roll of gauze out of the second-aid kit box and shifted his grip on her ankle. “Now, this cut’s a little too big for our band-aids, so I’m just gonna . . .” He trailed off, biting the tip of his tongue (it helped him concentrate).

“You’re good at this,” she said after a moment. He wasn’t sure if this was meant as reassurance or surprise, but he smiled.

“Thank you! It’s been a while” — a small tightening in his stomach, the tiniest surge of panic that was easily squashed down — “but it’s nice to know I can still take care of things when I need to!”

She was quiet for a moment, and part of him was relieved to wrap her foot without distraction. “How come you always have me play camp nurse?”

He shrugged, checking to make sure the bandages were secure before lifting her foot off his lap and setting it on the table. “Well, you’re just so good at it.” She scoffed, and he squeezed her ankle gently. “No, really! The campers find you comforting.” More so than him, anyway. Gwen’s indifference seemed to make the kids feel like nothing was wrong in a way that David’s cheer never quite managed. It was an anchor to grab onto; if his easily-harried coworker could roll her eyes at a stab wound and complain about blood on her shoes, it was harder to drift into hysterics. Her bedside manner could use a little work, but . . . “Besides, you aren’t squeamish, and that’s very helpful!”

“Blood freaks you out, huh?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

Oh, darn it. He’d been trying so hard to seem calm and unflappable so she wouldn’t worry — she had enough to worry about, especially right now — and he just had to go put his foot in his mouth like that. “No, of course not! I just . . . prefer not to be around. It. When it . . . while it’s there. Outside of where it’s. Supposed to be.”

Well, that was hardly unflappable.

Gwen snickered, and before he could change the subject she leaned forward, the sudden gentle pressure of her fingers in his hair making him jump — backward, _away_ , goshdarn it, the absolute opposite direction of where he wanted to go — but her other hand tugged at his shirt, crumpling the pine tree logo and holding him still. Not like he couldn’t break away, but why would he, why was he even thinking about that when she was kissing him — the impossible, four long years of “don’t even think about it” somehow had happened so many times he’d lost count, not nearly enough but it’d even started to feel familiar: warm and soft and sweet, slight movements of her lips and tongue that left him panting inelegant and ragged against her mouth, and little rasping sounds of her nails raking through his hair —

He made a rather embarrassing noise, shifting forward suddenly to brace his hand against the table because he didn’t have faith in his legs supporting him.

Gwen pulled away, lips pressed together to hold back a laugh that still escaped through her eyes, and —

Not unflappable, definitely not.

He was easily and thoroughly flapped.

“God, you’re cute.” A little bit of her amusement bubbled through, a soft breath of a laugh that wasn’t _at_ him; for once he wasn’t being laughed at, he was _cute_ and someone she wanted to _kiss_ — hadn’t stopped, really, merely redirected her attention to his jaw and — _hhhokay._ He dug his nails into the table’s warped wooden surface and begged his knees to keep him standing just for a few more minutes, please, _please_. . . “Have you always been this fucking adorable?”

There were a hundred clever and smooth responses to that, but what his brain spat out wasn’t one of them. “La-nguage, Gwen.”

“There’s no one here.” She turned to one side, then the other, exaggeratedly looking around, then cocked her her head — her hair, not in a ponytail for once, falling fluffy and thick over one shoulder. “Unless it bothers _you_. Does it, David?”

He hadn’t put much thought into his own name — aside from briefly considering changing it to Axel in fifth grade, and Elliot in tenth — but the way she said it was somewhere between a joke and a secret, like something special that they shared instead of just his alone and lonely.

He shook his head, feeling a little like he was dreaming.

She rewarded him with a smile, leaning back and sticking her leg out straight, wiggling her toes (then wincing and checking to make sure the bandages were still in place). “Well then, what do you say we get the gosh-darn heck out of here, then?” She grimaced with a laugh, shaking her head. “Nope, fuck that. It sounds stupid.”

David would never call her _stupid_ , but he had to admit that he liked Gwen much better the way she was. Language and all.

* * *

**Summer 2017**

He’d waited until after dinner before emerging from his room, darting across the campsite like he was a camper breaking curfew again. The kids would’ve been herded down by the lake, where they could enjoy the setting sun and their relative freedom for another few hours before bed, and he usually took advantage of this quiet time to set up for the next day’s activities. Part of him had been sorely tempted not to bother, but he finally forced himself out of bed through aggressive optimism, reminding himself that it was important to keep up his routine, and that the fresh air and movement would do him good.

Besides, he was starving. Snagging a granola bar from the pantry, he flipped through his clipboard with the other hand. Tomorrow was Painting Camp, which meant . . .

A lot of energy and patience, frankly, which David didn’t feel like he had in spades right then. But that wasn’t the point! The point was to make sure the campers had a wonderful time, and he would have to put his bad mood aside to make that happen.

 _It’s not like they_ will _have a good time, though. They never do._

The thought was sudden and sharp, bubbling up from the very back of his mind. David’s feet slowed in front of the supply room, and for a moment he stood there with his hand on the door, frowning.

Goodness, staying in bed all day really had done a number on him. It wasn’t good to wallow, clearly; all sorts of ugly things seemed to creep up on him when he did.

Shaking his head to clear it, he entered the supply room, focusing on the sound his boots made on the hard wooden floor. Six dull _clumps_ and he was halfway across, right in front of the various art supplies. He knew every step of this process by heart, and it was easier to keep from drifting off into negative thoughts when he grounded himself in the familiarity.

“Good job, David!” he murmured to himself. (He usually kept his encouraging monologues a bit more _internal_ , but no one was around and he could use the noise.) “Now, let’s make sure we have enough paint, and then we’ll check the brushes —”

— which were not there. Neither was the paint. And, when he moved to the end of the shelf ( _three more steps, clumpclumpclump_ ), the easels that normally leaned against it were missing as well.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, staring at the place his easels were supposed to be. Finally a screech from outside roused him — _a wren_ , he thought, his brain distant and foggy — and he stepped back, giving the rest of the room a quick once-over to reaffirm that his supplies were in fact missing, and headed toward the kitchen, figuring more substantial food might help him think clearly.

“Okay,” he mused aloud, “maybe QM brought them out for the campers.” That’d happened more than once, when the kids’ boredom overpowered their desire not to do anything. He usually preferred they do an activity that wouldn’t be repeated for a while, but he was pretty sure no one except him actually paid attention to the schedule. “Or maybe some of the kids borrowed —”

 _(stole_ )

“— _borrowed_ them for a project!” That kind of initiative was always exciting (even if the results were sometimes . . . dangerous), and he brightened just thinking about it. “So next what we should do is ask Gw —”

David froze in the middle of the kitchen, suddenly feeling like the room was rushing away from him. He closed his eyes, swaying slightly, and forced himself to focus: on the floor below his feet, the clipboard in his hand, the light comforting weight of his vest over his shoulders.

_Breathe, David. Deep breaths, like Kennedy taught you._

“— Quartermaster,” he finished after a few seconds. His voice sounded weak and wavery, but when he looked around the room wasn’t moving. Still oddly distant, like there was a transparent haze between his brain and his eyes, but he could live with that. “We’ll ask the Quartermaster if he knows where the . . .”

He started walking, his footsteps somehow feeling both weightless and leaden at the same time.

_You’re having a panic attack._

“I am _not_ having a panic attack,” he snapped, too loud and too bright, cheer grating through his teeth like sandpaper. These kinds of thoughts weren’t productive, weren’t _helpful_.

_This is a panic attack._

“Everything’s _fine_.”

 _You know better_.

There was something infuriatingly calm about the voice, a grounded heaviness that made his skin crawl because it was pessimistic and dour and everything he tried so hard to shield himself from and on top of all that _he was pretty sure it was right_.

He pushed through the back door of the Mess Hall, figuring the fastest way to find the Quartermaster — _and avoid Gwen_ , his brain buzzed in an unhappy refrain, _don’t see Gwen don’t see Gwen_ — was to cut through the woods around the camp. He knew the grounds like the back of his hand, so even with QM’s inexplicable ability to disappear into thin air, he was pretty sure he would —

_See Gwen_

_See Gwen_

_Gwen Gwen GwenGwenGwenGwen    G w e n_

The door shut behind him with a clap, the sound making him wince.

Gwen looked up, nearly dropping the easel balanced precariously between her right elbow and the same ankle; she was trying to open it with her feet, which David had always told her was dangerous and more effort than just using her hands, but she never listened to him.

(She _never_ listened to him.)

She must’ve been at work for a little while, as there were several stations already set up in the little grassy area behind the Mess Hall, and her hair had started to escape from its ponytail and fall in sweaty wisps around her face.

She was beautiful, and the reminder winded him.

For a fraction of a second they were both frozen, lost in the syrupy early-evening light that filtered through the trees in shades of olive and honey and made everything feel slowed down. Then she stumbled back, her eyes dropping from his. The easel hooked around her ankle tangled her feet and before he could do more than take an instinctive step forward she fell with a clatter of cheap metal and spindly wood.

David saw her cheekbone crack against a sharp corner and a splash of red, and he was across the small clearing before he could think about it. Gently tugging the easel free, he tossed it aside and cupped her jaw, turning her face toward the light.

It wasn’t a big scratch, he realized with a sigh of relief. Taking care not to touch it directly, he swiped his thumb underneath the cut to head off the thin trickle of blood that threatened to spill down her cheek.

“Oh thank goodness,” he breathed, and it wasn’t until her eyes widened in surprise that he realized what he was doing. Kneeling in front of his ex-girlfriend, fluttering over an insubstantial cut like he had the right to, like she hadn’t essentially told him the last year had been a big ugly regret for her, no matter how happy she’d seemed or how happy he’d been —

He stumbled back, wiping her blood on his shirt. “You’re fine,” he said, straightening his back and turning his attention to the fallen easel. “You should be more careful around camp equipment though, no matter how innocuous it seems.”

There, much better. That was something he’d say to his campers, and that was how he’d have to look at Gwen: she was part of his job, interacting with her was a necessary evil —

_just like interacting with him had been a necessary evil_

_no matter how genuine her smiles had seemed_

_god, had she hated him this whole time?_

— a challenge, and David Greenwood was no stranger to challenges! He’d be fine, like any other good counselor. No matter how much it clawed at his heart to look at her.

Unfolding the easel, he pretended not to notice her uncertainly climbing to her feet. “You can take a break,” he continued as smoothly as possible. “I’ll finish setting up.”

“No —” her voice was rough, like she’d just woken up or like she hadn’t spoken to anyone all day, “don’t bother. I was almost done anyway.”

“But you’re hurt —” As he spoke, he glanced at her sideways and was struck silent by her “just shut up David” glare. And for a split second it was like nothing had happened, like the last year had been a wonderful, awful dream and she was just his coworker and good friend and someone who occasionally hit him with a guitar when she was overwhelmed and who very occasionally kept him up at night thinking and worrying and pretending a thousand insane things. David’s mouth started to curl up into a smile, lungs taking a deep breath with which to say “Okay, Gwen!” — his body operating on reflex before his mind could adjust to their new reality and snap a blank mask clumsily over his expression. He drew his arms in close, one hand fiddling with the already-overgrowing fluff of hair behind his ear, like he could actually pull a shield over his face, something friendly and dependent and grown-up. “Whatever you’d like to do,” he finally managed. “I’ll just help with —”

“No, David, seriously.” They both winced at the sound of his name in her mouth, at how right and comfortable and ordinary it was there. Recovering first, Gwen swiped at the cut with the heel of her hand; there was something defiant and touchingly childish about the movement. “I’ve got it, you don’t have to do anything else.”

 _You don’t have to do anything else._ He let his hands drop, gnawing on the inside of his cheek to suppress the urge to hug his arms to his chest. Like he was speaking through ten feet of water and a throat full of glass, he mumbled something — agreement, probably, but for all he was aware it could’ve been a stream of obscenities — and turned back toward the cabin, listening to the dull, heavy sounds of his boots on the packed earth and trying not to feel like he’d been dismissed.

He didn’t have to do anything _else?_ What exactly had he done so far?

David almost didn’t notice the camper in his path until he was on top of him. Skidding to a halt and barely catching himself before falling over, he gathered up all the tattered remains of his energy and shoved a smile onto his face. “Why hello, Neil! What’re you doing all the way out here?”

Neil glanced up at him with a start, eyebrows shooting up. He was curled up with his back to the supply shed, a pen tucked behind his ear and a book — his diary? David wasn’t going to try and peek — balanced on his legs. “Uh . . . nothing?”

None of his campers were great liars (except Max, who was . . . a special case in a lot of ways, and Nurf, who was . . . even more special), and Neil was one of the worst. He reminded David of Gwen, actually; like he just didn’t have time to deal with bullshit like tact and social manipulation, and probably wasn’t very good at it anyway. “Where are your partners in crime?” he asked, trying to ignore the urge to just keep walking until he collapsed on his bed. He had a job to do, after all!

Neil shrugged, eyes flicking back down to his book like he really wanted to just get back to it (another thing that reminded him of Gwen. God, he’d have to stop seeing her everywhere). “Doing something loud and stupid, probably. I just wanted to be alone.”

“I get that.” He got the hint, as well, but he felt like he had to at least try one more time to engage Neil in conversation. He wasn’t a _quiet_ kid, exactly — certainly had lots of opinions and was willing to share them — but he was a little strange and a bit of a loner, and David sometimes worried that he wasn’t having as much fun at Camp Campbell as he could be. (Gwen said he had two close friends and that was fine, and to leave the poor guy alone with his geek stuff if that’s what made him happy. Of course, he’d have to stop relying on what Gwen said. Even if he felt a little lost just thinking about the rest of the summer without her being his voice of reason.)

Honestly, if Neil wanted to be left alone, David was more than happy to oblige him. “Well, you just make sure you’re safe in your tent by lights-out! Things can get spooky around here at night.” He made to go around Neil, but was stopped by his voice again.

“Max is gonna try to steal your phone, by the way. You really need to put a lock on that thing. And not leave it lying around where we can find it.”

“Oh. Thank you for telling me . . .” He trailed off, frowning. “Why _did_ you tell me?”

Neil’s expression immediately turned cagey. He looked down at his book, tugging free his pen and tapping it against his knee thoughtfully. So that meant they were planning something. And either it involved his phone or — maybe that was a distraction? Was Neil meant to be the distraction? Or was he reading too much into things?

David’s shoulders slumped.

God, he was tired. Tired and not in the mood for any of this.

“You know what? He can have it.”

All he wanted was a long rest.

But before he could, Neil spoke again.

“Uhhh, David? You don’t . . . look so good.” David glanced back to see Neil setting his book aside, eyeing him warily. “And that doesn’t bode well for what little remains of my faith in the camp.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just — tired.” For some reason this struck him as hilarious — he was tired, Gwen was tired, being an adult and being awake and being alive were so very fucking _tiring_. The only one who never seemed tired was Mr. Campbell, and who even knew where he was now? — and he bit back a laugh with some difficulty, knowing that if he started he might not be able to stop, might just keep laughing until he collapsed, and he was barely hanging onto his composure as it was. “Have a good eve —”

“Did you know that hugs have been proven to be scientifically beneficial?” For a second they both stared at each other, Neil seeming as surprised by his statement as David was. Before he could even try to piece it together, the kid had continued, setting his pen in the spine of his book as a page marker and putting it aside. “It reduces blood pressure and heart rate, and releases oxytocin. The link hasn’t been entirely proven, so . . .” He stared down at his knees for a long second, then took a deep breath. “ _NIKKI!_ COME HUG DAVID! FOR SCIENCE!”

He jumped at the sudden yell, and before he could get his footing a blur of teal and red came barreling up the path, head-butting him in the stomach and knocking him into the dirt. Tiny arms wrapped around his waist, almost too tight to breathe. He struggled into a sitting position, trying fruitlessly to gently dislodge the tiny camper before giving up and resting his chin on the top of her head. “Thank you, Nikki,” he mumbled, feeling a little bit better despite his confusion.

“Sure thing, David!” She wriggled to face Neil — it was a little like trying to hold a very large puppy that smelled like peanut butter and dirt. “How long do I hug him for? Are we holding him captive?”

“Twenty seconds,” he replied, returning his attention to the book. “That’s how long it’s supposed to require for the benefits to take effect. If we’d _actually_ stolen David’s phone I could time it to make sure, but I’ve had to settle for imperfect scientific conditions all summer.”

The next few seconds were rather peaceful, aside from a rock jabbing into David’s thigh. Just a slight breeze coming off the lake and Nikki quietly counting under her breath. When she reached twenty she hopped off his lap, bouncing over to her friend and plopping onto the ground next to him. “Did we do something? Did I do science, Neil?”

“That depends.” Neil’s eyes met David’s, a flicker of genuine concern underneath indifferent scientific curiosity. (Or maybe that was just his wishful thinking.) “How do you feel?”

He climbed to his feet, dusting himself off. “Come to think of it, I _do_ feel a bit better. Thank you!”

“Not entirely conclusive, of course,” Neil muttered, turning to a blank page in his book and beginning to write. “Ideally we’d have more than just one subject, and maybe a several-item questionnaire to fill out both before and after administering the hug treatment. Not to mention a control group, and far less questionable conditions . . .” Ignoring both David and Nikki, who’d flopped onto her back and was staring up at the darkening sky, Neil returned to his diary with a distinct air of dismissal.

Before he left, though . . . “Guys, I really appreciate the help, but do you — think you could maybe not mention this to Max?” The last thing he needed was for Max to suspect something was wrong; who knew what he might get up to? And David was nowhere near capable of handling his delightfully creative mayhem, not until . . . until something. Until things got better, which they had to.

Neil snorted. “Tell him that we were voluntarily nice to you? Puh _-lease_. I get bullied enough by Nurf as it is.”

“Yeah,” Nikki added, “and besides, this was a _way_ better distraction than telling you we were gonna steal your phone!”

_“Nikki!”_

“What? What’d I say?” she asked.

Oh gosh, he just didn’t have the _energy_. “Is whatever Max is doing going to hurt anyone? Immediately, anyway?”

Nikki shook her head. “Not unless eating pudding until you throw up is a bad thing, and that’s just crazy talk!”

“Fine. Great. That’s . . . goodnight, kiddos.”

As he made his way into the cabin, relieved to see it was still dark and empty even after his unintentional delay, David couldn’t help but feel — not better, exactly, but a little less bleak, a little brighter and a little more like his usual self.

No matter what else happened, he still had his campers. And he still had Camp Campbell.

He only wished it felt like enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel bad for leaving everyone at such a cliffhanger last time, but since posting the last chapter and this one I got a job, was laid off from that job, went through a pretty serious depression pit and existential crisis over being laid off, and then got a new job that I'm still sort of working out my feelings over.
> 
> I'm not exactly happy with this chapter, but almost 10 months and 37 pages later, I need to move on to the next bit of this long meandering fic. I literally never went a week without writing at least a word of this, so it and I have been through . . . quite a lot together. But rest assured that this story is very very far from done, and with Season 3 giving us so much awesomeness, I'm really excited to get things back on track!


	11. (Optional) A Pair of Smutlets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two nsfw deleted scenes, the first previously published on tumblr and the second brand-new.
> 
> #1 takes place in the middle of ch. 6, in New York.
> 
> #2 is the first time they’ve woken up together. (In terms of chronology, it takes place immediately after the first Tigger&Eeyore fic. In terms of story, it’s after the first scene in ch. 10.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry that this isn’t a real update, but I’ve been sitting on these pieces for a while now and I think they’re pretty decent. Besides, maybe we could use something wholesome and sweet and nasty.
> 
> (In #1, “green” and “yellow” refer to the stoplight model of safe words.)

**#1     I Lack a Clever Title for This**

_“I’m sorry.” He flushed, ashamed again. “I really shouldn’t have — I know it was wrong of me, but I just — I just_ couldn’t _—”_

_“Thank you.” She finished patching him up and gently kissed his knuckles._

_It took him a second to mentally change tracks. "For … for what?“_

_She snuggled into his lap, looping her arms over his shoulders and giving him a shy smile that made his heartbeat stutter. “For caring about me enough to get angry.”_

He was going to apologize again, but then she leaned forward and kissed him, and … well, he had a lapful of Gwen and that was more interesting than anything he had to say, really, especially when she was shifting her hips against his and sliding her hands down his chest and it’d been a long five months, darn it.

Still, he liked to let her set the pace. It was important to him, because he never wanted her to feel pressured to do anything more than she had to (and besides, she normally went so hard and fast it was all he could do to keep up), so even though his nerves were singing, begging him to push back against her and speed things along, he kept his hands on her waist instead of sliding them down under the sleek fabric, he kept his tongue waiting patiently in his mouth until hers flicked against his bottom lip, he kept his hips firmly against the mattress instead of rising up to meet hers because he wanted her to be comfortable, that was more important than anything even this beautiful exquisite torture, this _dying_ …

So when she pulled back, sliding out of his lap completely and settling down on the bed in front of him, he let her go with only the barest twitch of his fingers to keep her pressed against him, he bit back a whine, he smiled at her even though there were a thousand other things he’d rather do with his lips. Besides, her expression was teasing, which either meant something really good or really bad (and then really good), so he was more _than_ happy to play along. “Jeez, David, you’re making me feel like I’m doing all the work here.”

“What?” His brain was having trouble catching up to her words.

“I mean —” She ran the tip of one fingernail along the edge of his collar, in the narrow strip of skin between it and his bandanna and he shuddered, “— I’m always the one who’s gotta take charge here. I’m starting to wonder if you even _wanna_ do this.”

And there was a flicker behind her eyes, because she was kidding she _knew_ how badly he wanted her lord knows she’d felt it a thousand times but now she’d introduced the idea into her head and he knew that game, he knew how anxiety worked and now she’d have trouble shaking it loose unless he did, snagged it before it had a chance to grow roots and rip it out of the ground. “That’s … Gwen, I — of course I — _how_ —”

Unfortunately, David had never been great with words.

“Prove it.” And there it was, the smirk that meant she wasn’t backing down, the challenge. She sat back on her heels, her hands primly in her lap. “If you want anything tonight, you better be prepared to take it. I’m taking the night off.”

“B-but …” There was something about the thought that appealed to him, that coiled thick and warm in his stomach and stole his breath, but, “I don’t … wanna pressure you.”

The smirk melted into a genuine smile, tender and affectionate. “David, you’ve been killing me all night. So … we’re green, okay? Unless I say otherwise — and I probably won’t — assume it’s all good.”

 _Wow_. That … that was a lot of power suddenly thrust in his lap. He wasn’t used to it, but that wasn’t a bad thing. He swallowed, his mind swimming with so many possibilities it made him dizzy. “O-okay. Stand up.”

Gwen’s grin widened. “Yes, sir.” And that wasn’t something they’d said to each other before but he had to close his eyes for a second because _gosh_ it felt good, he wanted to hear it over and over.

And he could. “Say that again.” He stood as well, turning her so her back was to him and running his hands down her arms, forcing himself to remember that she said this was okay, she wanted this, he could touch all he wanted it was fine.

“Say … ? Oh.” Gwen snickered, then leaned her head against his shoulder and sighed. “Yes, sir.”

 _God_. His fingers tightened around her waist, digging into her and drawing out a gasp he barely noticed thanks to the snap of heat rushing brutally south. “Ssshit.” He tried to muffle it in her hair but she heard, she let out a breathless laugh and every sound was going to drive him crazy. “C-can you … keep calling me that? Tonight?”

“Yyeah.” Her voice was light but more than a little unsteady, tapering off into a sigh as he unzipped her dress. “I can do that, sir.”

That was good. He almost thought he could come just from her calling him that enough times, but he didn’t have to settle for that if he didn’t want to, and he sure as heck didn’t want to. So he swallowed, gulped really, and slid her dress off her shoulders, helped her out of the sleeves and as beautiful as she’d looked in it it was nothing compared to the way she was out of it, all warm and glowing and lightly freckled, and he left the dress bunched around her waist because she hadn’t worn a bra with it and that was — it was a surprising realization and he needed to devote some attention to it.

“God,” she breathed, arching into his hands as they slid up her ribs, “ _god_ David I’d missed this. I-I mean sir, sorry sir.”

David bit his lip because if he didn’t he was going to whimper or curse or do something equally embarrassing, because he didn’t see himself getting used to that anytime soon. But it was difficult because she was so painfully beautiful, pressed against him with her chest under his fingertips and her body against — well, maybe he should’ve been embarrassed by how worked up he was already, but it was hard to care when every shift sent a jolt of heat through him, a rush of blood that tightened the coil in his lower belly and made him ache.

He skated his fingers over her nipples, featherlight circles before letting the pads brush gently over them. Gwen hissed and arched into him, clumsily unknotting his bandanna with one hand and turning her head to press her mouth against his neck. “Fffuck,” she whispered into his skin — and he remembered they had to be quiet, for the sake of her roommate they had to be quiet. “Jesus, David, sssir that’s so fucking good …”

And every time she curved her spine like that, rolling her shoulders back and arching into his touch, the swell of her ass ground hard against him, and he’d always tried to … well, not _ignore_ that part of her, there wasn’t an inch of her body he was willing to ignore, but he didn’t want her to think he was a pervert or something, he wanted her to know he respected _all_ of her — but he had a special affinity for that, and pressed up against him like this was just, _goodness_ it was amazing. He kissed her head, buried his nose in her hair and rolled his hips forward with a groan, shuddering.

If she noticed she didn’t comment. Her breathing was getting shallower and rougher as he touched her, played with her, indulged himself more than he usually would allow because he could and he wanted to. She always insisted her breasts were too small and that was crazy, he didn’t understand how she thought they were anything but perfect. They were so soft and alive and they pulled the most incredible noises from her, moans when he rolled her nipples between his fingers and sighs when he dragged his palms over them and squeaky incoherent obscenities when he tugged on them, gently and then less gently. “Please, sir, I — can you … ?”

“I thought I was in charge,” he teased, and it was a good line, much better than he had any right to come up with because his brain had left the premises and all that was left was a body screaming and sobbing and begging him to stop playing and fuck her.

But the fact that she felt the same way … that was a rush of power that hit him like a thunderbolt, made him both more desperate and absolutely more determined to keep going slow.

“Are you gonna make me beg?”

He might. The idea was definitely attractive, so much so that he accidentally dug his nails into the sensitive skin along her ribcage and she gasped, arching again and okay he needed to be selfish just for a minute, he didn’t care how pathetic he seemed he needed it.

Bracing his hands on her hips, his fingers dipping into the hollows just under her hipbones so she was pressed flush against him, he bucked forward into her with a weak shivery sigh of relief. And again, and again. He settled into a rhythm that ripped the air from his lungs with every thrust, and there was a logical part of his brain that told him he should stop, should turn this into actual fucking before he embarrassed himself but he could no more do that than he could dam the stream of inanities spilling from his lips, mumbled nonsense into her hair because she was perfect her body was perfect and right now he was acutely painfully aware of the fact that her ass was perfect and he was ashamed, Gwen had teased him before about whether he was a “tit man” or an “ass man” and he was neither, he was a Gwen man if anything but right now he couldn’t stop thinking about the way she’d looked all evening, her skirt full and lovely with a distracting swell and curve and he’d tried not to look all day because he was a gentleman but he wasn’t, he wasn’t really and god she was so beautiful, what the hell was she _doing_ here with him? Letting him do this, rut against her like an animal when he really should be worshipping at her feet?

After everything they’d done together one would think David’s standards would be higher, that dry-humping like a teenager wouldn’t be close to enough to get him there, but the coil in his stomach tightened with a familiar dangerous spike of sharp pleasure and he realized he had to stop, partly because he still had some shame and partly because this dress was too beautiful to stain. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled, stopping and carefully pulling her dress down over her hips, “I shouldn’t have … I lost — I got distracted, sorry.”

“Why?” She laughed quietly. “Sir, _please_ don’t be sorry.”

He traced the line of her underwear, hesitant to remove them because of course she had on a lacy black thong, a delicate barely-there scrap of fabric he’d never seen before and the fact that she’d worn something special just because he was visiting, that she’d been expecting something like this to happen and had prepared for it, it was the most bizarre blend of sweet and sexy that was purely _Gwen_ , so much so it made his heart ache. And again he should just appreciate the sentiment and give her an orgasm already, she’d earned it, but the sight of her right then, in a thong and heels and nothing else, it was something he’d never known he wanted but it made his mouth go dry. She looked wonderful naked but he wasn’t quite ready to let go of this yet, not until he’d seared it into his memory. He palmed her ass, then let his fingers skate down between her legs, where the fabric was damp because she was wet already, whatever he was doing it’d affected her and here was the _proof_ , and for a second he had to pause and take a deep breath because sometimes he still couldn’t believe she was attracted to him.

And that gave him the courage to do something he … he probably shouldn’t, to be honest. “C-can you, um, get on the bed? On your hands and knees?” When she moved to slip out of her heels he blurted out, “Would you mind keeping those on? Is that okay?”

Gwen froze for a second, then smiled, something between her usual smirk and a genuine grin. “Oh? Sure, boss. Whatever you say.” When David settled in behind her, shaky and embarrassed and unbelievably turned on, she added, “Uh, yellow? You’re not planning on fucking my ass, are you? Because I haven’t done that in like forever and we’re gonna need a lot more planning than I have the patience for tonight.”

It took a second for the words to penetrate his lust-hazy brain, but when they did it almost short-circuited. “I … I wasn’t going to.” The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind; okay, he’d thought about it, but not really, not like he’d ever expected it to happen. “You’d … let me do that?”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, her face reddening. And there was something so innocently filthy about that, about her flushed cheeks and bashfulness while she was on her knees in nothing but underwear and heels, that made him twitch and shiver. “I was kinda waiting to ask, actually. I didn’t want you to think I was, like, weird or gross or something.”

Like he ever could.

David leaned down and kissed the dip in her back, following the upward curve until he met the waistband of her underwear. “So I was …” He fumbled, scrambled, scrabbled for words to describe what he wanted without sounding like a freak. “I guess I- I was hoping maybe you’d let me …” He didn’t want to say it, he didn’t want to say it. “Co-me on you? On your … ?”

Oh god. He shouldn’t have said it. That was weird and sick and _he_ was weird and sick and she’d laugh at him, or tell him to leave or —

“Fuck.” There was silence, silence except for her quiet breathing and his shrieking thoughts. “God, yeah, David. I mean, sir. Do it. Please.” And the relief was so intense it meshed strangely with the stomach-tightening realization that he could, he could and she _wanted_ him to and that was so unfairly good he curled forward again; he hadn’t even meant to, it was just the result of his muscles tightening almost painfully, shudderingly. But he felt her shiver as his breath skated over her skin, so he pressed a gentle kiss against her right cheek, unable to keep back a stupid giddy grin that was half embarrassment and half awe. He’d imagined a lot of things, a lot of unrealistic crazy things born in the sweat-soaked agony of being a teenager, but nothing he’d ever fantasized about came close to this.

(His teenage self had no idea how _good_ it was going to get.)

“Claire’s probably still awake, isn’t she?” David murmured against her, sliding up her body until he could kiss her shoulder. When she hummed uncertainly, he fought past his embarrassment — it wasn’t like he was going to cross a line … he hoped — and added, “Sometime … ah, when we don’t have to worry about being quiet, I’d like — ma-aaybe I could, um, sspank you? If you wouldn’t mind.” His face was on fire and he licked a short line down her spine, relieved she couldn’t see him.

Gwen was quiet just long enough for him to start panicking. “I could go kill her now. Then we wouldn’t have to be quiet.” And the urgency in her voice, the frustrated bite underneath the joke that proved it was very much _not_ a joke, gave him a surge of confidence, which bubbled from his chest in a low laugh that made her shiver.

David liked asking for things, it turned out.

“Another time,” he said, almost teased, because he was suddenly lightheaded with the fact that he apparently couldn’t come up with something she _didn’t_ like, she didn’t think he was a creep or a pervert and that was something he hadn’t even realized he was scared of until just this second and the relief was staggering, dizzying. He sat back, unzipping his pants because he couldn’t bring himself to waste another second undressing. “Do you … what would you like … ?”

“You’re fine, sir,” she replied, almost groaned. “Though can I —” Without bothering to explain what she wanted she lowered herself to her elbows and oh she was right, that was much better, that was lovely and breathtaking and wow. “Seriously, David, this is —” He began stroking himself with a quiet sigh, running two fingers of his free hand down the string of her thong until they dipped into her cleft, and she whined, “— so-ohh fucking hot you don’t even know, Christ. I’d sit on your face after this but I think you’d drown.”

David’s fingers reached the damp fabric that illustrated her point, slipping under it and brushing against the slick hot skin of her folds. “I, _haaahh_ —” The hand that wasn’t occupied with Gwen twisted, his thumb swiping over his head and spreading pre-come down to the sensitive underside, “— wo-houldn’t mind that.”

“Really? God.” She pushed back against him, so his fingers slid inside her; unable to resist, he leaned forward, pushing in up to the second knuckle and kissing the impossibly-smooth skin of her ass again because now that he’d started doing that he was never going to be able to stop. And he didn’t — even as his hands sped up, sparking sparkling mounting pleasure that forced his eyes closed no matter how badly he wanted to keep staring, his mouth continued exploring, tongue flicking out against the skin and making her gasp. “God _damn_ it, sir.”

That wasn’t fair, and neither was what he did next. Because her words made him want to do something, say something, be louder than was courteous to Claire at any rate, and usually in this kind of situation he’d bite down on his arm or hand but they were both occupied, so …

He used what he had available.

“ _Shit!_ ” For a second a thousand apologies leapt to David’s mind, but he felt the way she tightened and fluttered around his fingers and they’d done this long enough for him to figure out what that meant. “H-how weird … would you think I was if … I said I … liked that?” Her voice was muffled, her face pillowed in her arms, but he got the general idea. Instead of responding he bit her again, more gently this time, and she moaned, a sound that might as well have been directly tied to his cock because that was all he had left.

With an apologetic kiss he pulled out of her and sat up straight again, switching hands so the fingers slick with her were wrapped around himself and biting down on his free arm because she’d realized what he was about to do and whimpered, and she was so wet he was covered in it, _drenched_ in it, and it was all he could do to keep from crying out as he pumped himself harder and toppled, shuddering, over the edge, his vision whiting out as every sense turned inward and focused on each burning quivering pulse.

When it’d faded, leaving behind a shivery warm afterglow, he opened his eyes and nearly choked. Because Gwen was splattered with him, so milky white against her skin and the black cloth of her underwear, he’d painted her, he’d _marked_ her and that shouldn’t have sent an aftershock of pleasure coursing through his body but it did, watching the surely-ticklish drips of his come run over her ass and down her thighs was hotter than it had any right to be, it appealed to some primitive possessive deep-down part of him.

“Ohhh my god,” Gwen murmured, raising up onto her elbows and sounding like she’d come instead of him, “that was … you all right, sir?”

David let out a laugh, a weak huff of air, and climbed to his feet on unsteady legs. He was so much better than all right. “L-let me get you … I’ll be right back.” Barely remembering to tuck himself back in (and he was still fully clothed, how pathetic), he slipped into the bathroom and found a towel, running it under the sink and returning to wipe Gwen clean.

Once he was done she rolled onto her back, grinning up at him. “You’re kinky.”

Something like that shouldn’t make him blush, not after what he’d just done, but he avoided her eyes as he carefully folded the towel so the dirty edges were contained inside and dropped it in her hamper, feeling his face warm. “I … I guess I am?”

“It’s a good thing, don’t worry.” She paused for a moment, then stretched out her legs onto his lap, crossing her ankles over his thigh. And he wasn’t ready, not yet, but if she kept looking at him like that … “So, you’re still in charge, boss.”

He was. And he wasn’t done yet. “On your knees. Underwear off.”

“Again?” She groaned playfully, getting up and doing as he said. “Jeez, you’re really giving me a worko — oh.” Her eyes went wide as he laid down on his back, shifting until he was in the center of the bed.

David beamed at her. After that, still tingling and unable to get the image of her covered in his come out of his head, he felt absurdly confident. “I think I owed you a seat?”

 

* * *

**#2     The First Morning After**

“Can I wash your hair?”

He paused, glancing over his shoulder at Gwen and blinking through the spray. (He’d found himself having to literally turn his back to her out of shyness, because it was so easy to get distracted by the water droplets on the ends of her eyelashes or the way her hair developed this slight curl when wet and stuck to her skin and was much longer than he’d thought, falling almost to her chest, and, well . . . “Hmm?”

She held up the shampoo bottle, tapping it against her palm. “Can I?”

“Oh! Um, of course.” He paused, glancing down at his feet. Their height difference really wasn’t significant, but he didn’t want her to have to stretch -- “Should I . . .?” 

“You’re fine,” she said, taking his arm and tugging him around to face her like this was something they did every day, like he didn’t keep biting the inside of his cheek because this all felt like a dream, a shameful, wonderful, all-too-vivid dream. Even his shampoo looked unreal cupped in her palm, a brighter, shinier green, and he couldn’t believe someone could possibly be so beautiful.

(It was difficult to resist the urge to turn around again.)

“Is this what makes your hair so fluffy?” she asked, her fingers working with the brisk gentleness he was used to from whenever he got hurt. He made a noncommittal noise, closing his eyes against the soapy water running down his face and letting himself melt into her touch, into the gorgeous shivers from her nails against his scalp and the light tugs whenever she moved her hands, like even the strands of his hair knew better than to let go of her. “Well, I like the way it smells.”

David quietly resolved never to buy another brand of shampoo again.

She stepped closer, tilting his head back into the shower spray, wiping the suds off his face with the heel of one hand and carefully protecting his bandage with the other. “I love your hair,” she murmured, resting her forearms against his collarbone. Her voice was startlingly close to his ear like this, and he fought the urge to jolt back from surprise.

Gwen wasn’t normally this talkative; of the two of them, David would’ve said that he was the one who preferred filling the silence, but every time he tried to put his thoughts together they scattered under the feeling of her fingers in his hair, the way each movement crackled down his spine like an off switch, making his shoulders slump and his head loll in whatever direction she moved it like he was a very large doll she was playing with. He’d known it felt nice having his hair washed, but  _ wow _ . . . “Mm-hmm.” Goodness, that wasn’t a very good answer, was it? “You have pretty hair, too.”

She chuckled, a sound he felt in a burst of warm air against the sensitive skin under his ear. “Thanks, but I’d trade any day. It’d be cooler, at least.” Finished with his hair, it seemed, she ruffled it one last time before swaying forward, linking her arms around his neck and slotting neatly against his chest in a way that, if he didn’t know better, he’d almost call  _ snuggling. _ But of course, Gwen didn’t hug, let alone snuggle, and certainly not with him.

(Then again, a small ignoble voice murmured in the back of his mind, there were a lot of things he’d been fairly confident Gwen wouldn’t do with him, up until she  _ did _ .)

It was automatic, natural, to lift his arms and wrap them around her waist, pull her closer and bury his face in the damp curly fluff of her hair. It smelled like the last time she’d washed it, with a little bit of bonfire smoke and sweat and something . . .  _ human _ , somehow. Earthy or musky and strangely familiar even though he couldn’t place it exactly, absolutely intoxicating. “You’d look cute with short hair,” he said, mentally flashing through the previous styles she’d tried over the years. There wasn’t a darn thing she  _ wouldn’t _ look good in, he was pretty sure, but he’d never seen her with hair as close-cropped as his, so short it didn’t block her eyes, highlighting her long, swanlike neck ...

Her fingers slipped up into his hair again — and unless he was being paranoid, it seemed like she was trying to make him shiver. She’d told him once that she considered herself a tease, and even as wholesome as he tried to present himself, he knew what a tease was and what was  _ being _ teased. And the thought that she’d do that to  _ him _ , press herself against him and rake her nails gently across his scalp for the express purpose of making his blood rush and pound and pool --

She ducked her chin, tilting her head so that her mouth latched onto the juncture where his neck met his shoulder, where his bandana would cover the mark she seemed determined to make. Her grip on his hair tightened as she bit down, her lips sliding across his skin with a wet, obscene sound.

\-- pool between his legs, and he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to move away or apologize or just enjoy the feeling, the buzzing insistence that might not go anywhere but it was okay if he hoped it might, wasn’t it? She . . . he wasn’t the first partner she’d ever had, certainly not the first male one, so she wouldn’t be -- offended, or pressured, or . . .

His eyes snapped open -- had they been closed? -- as Gwen put a hand in the center of his chest and pushed him back, the cold damp wall of the shower making him gasp against her mouth as she followed him. The water was just a little bit cooler now, but he’d had enough showers here to guess that they still had a good ten, fifteen minutes before the heat would give out, assuming no one flooded the campers’ bathroom or something. (But he should keep track of time, so that they could make sure to finish washing up after -- after whatever this was. He didn’t want Gwen to burden herself further with him.)

“Gwen,” he began -- although “began” wasn’t quite correct, implied that he had anything else to say and wasn’t just rolling the sound of her name over on his tongue. Trying to release some of the pressure building in his nerve endings, because her fingers were slipping down his sternum like they were being swept away with the flow of the water, and even the chill tile at his back couldn’t dampen the warmth blooming in his stomach — warmth and the barest tingling hope . . .

“Hh —” David nearly bit down on her tongue trying to stifle a sharp intake of breath, his hands flying from the wall behind him to grip her waist, steady himself, ground himself with the touch of her. Remind himself dazedly that since  _ his  _ hands were on her sides, they couldn’t be the ones tracing the skin below his bellybutton. “Gwen?” he forced out again, trying not to twitch as her nail gingerly outlined his hipbone, “um, Gwen, I . . .”

She hummed, pulling back from his mouth to give him room to talk. (Not that it helped, not when she instead began working over his neck with soft suckling kisses that made it so very difficult to do anything but melt back against the wall.)

Still, he didn’t want to take advantage. “I just -- don’t want to misread anything but it s- _ hhh _ eems like . . . maybe you’re —” He cut off sharply, the air ripped from his lungs.

“Jerking you off?” Her words were punctuated by a quiet amused huff and a long, slow stroke of the fingers that had closed around his cock. “I was kind of planning on it.”

David swallowed, letting his head tip back against the wall and hooking an arm around her waist so she was pressed against his side. “Oh. C-carry on then?”

(It came out sounding far less like a smooth joke and more like a plea.)

“Pick your poison?” 

He forced his eyes open to see that she was reaching toward the bottles lining the shower. She trailed over each one before tapping gently on the soap, her smirk softening at his blank expression. “Which do you use?”

“Oh! Ah . . .” He swallowed, his eyes landing on the offending container before darting down to his feet. “The conditioner. Usually.”

He had to fight a whine as she let go of him, his hands curling into loose fists at his sides as he watched her squirt a bit of conditioner into her palm, smearing it around her fingers. “Like that?” she asked, holding up a slick, milky hand.

David nodded, focusing on keeping his knees steady and his mind from screaming  _ exactly _ what that looked like, what seemed to be dripping down her wrist.

Gwen shifted close to him again, taking a deep breath, and it occurred to him for the first time that, somehow, she might actually be nervous. Like there was anything here she could possibly get wrong. “It’s gonna be cold,” she warned, leaning against his side and pressing her clean hand to the small of his back.

“It’s fine,” he said weakly. He didn’t care if it gave him frostbite; he just needed her to touch him again.

It  _ was  _ cold, especially to skin that felt on fire. But the discomfort lasted exactly as long as it took for her hand to drag up and down his length a few times before melting into pure heaven.

“Hh- _gnh_ \--” He buried his face in her hair, gritting his teeth and trying to keep his breathing even. She was going to think he was pathetic, but at the same time how could he keep it together when she --

She twisted her wrist, pressing the pad of her thumb gently to the underside of his head and drawing a few quick firm circles, and his grip on her waist tightened, because it was either that or moan and they weren’t far enough into things for him to be this embarrassingly  _ easy _ .

Not that he had any basis for comparison, but he’d been totally unprepared for how  _ good  _ she was at this.

Gwen mouthed at his jaw, her tongue flicking against his skin in time with her fingers and ohh gosh she was going to kill him. It was almost cruel, how overwhelming she was, her touch and smell and jeez even her breathing _ \--  _ he could hear it, light and just a little bit too fast and more or less everything he’d ever fantasized about since he was a teenager.

She took his earlobe between his teeth, and he  _ did  _ moan then, needy and far too loud. As soon as he recovered his breath he gasped, “S-sorry, I’ll keep it down just --”  _ just please don’t stop _ , because he might not survive the disappointment.

She didn’t. She pulled away and kissed his cheek, replacing hard fast strokes with long, languid ones that shuddered through his body in aching waves. “Don’t,” she murmured, close enough that her voice vibrated against his skin. “It’s . . . really hot, David.”

If he’d had the presence of mind to appreciate it he might’ve noticed that her voice had softened in embarrassment or maybe even shyness, but between her calling _him_ of all people hot and the way she said his name and the relentless beautiful drag of her hand, he didn’t quite have enough room in his brain to think about how she sounded. To think at all, really; his body had devolved to the point of pure base physicality, only the involuntary sensory functions fully online with nonessential things shoved into a dark back corner.

“ _ Christ _ ,” she said, her tone somewhere between amused and awed, watching him with a gaze so heated and heavy he could feel it, “how have we never done this before?”

He had no idea. At that moment he had no idea how he’d ever done anything else. It felt like he’d waited his entire life to be touched by Gwen, and he still hadn’t been prepared for it.

The hand on the small of his back flexed, then began to slide down his spine. David honestly wouldn’t have given it a second thought, not compared to the _very_ _important_ things she was doing with her other hand, but he was distracted by a brief flicker of panic as she ran her fingers teasingly along the cleft of his — his ass, and he wanted to ask if she knew what she was doing, because it felt good, shiveringly ticklishly good, but it might be heading for something he wasn’t prepared for. He was an adult, he knew what fingers could do there, but he’d never been brave enough to try it and while with Gwen he felt braver he also felt small, small and easily overwhelmed and swept along in waves of sensation, and aw heck, why not let her do whatever she wanted to him? It wasn’t like she’d had a bad idea yet, and he was so very darn _close_ so to hell with it, for all he cared she could —

Her hand changed course just slightly, following the curve of one cheek and sliding between his legs. She pressed at a spot behind his balls that lit up his brain like a firefly with the touch of her fingers. “Is that okay?”

“Um . . . yes?” It was, he thought, a bit neutral but teetering on the edge of good, and he wasn’t quite sure how to communicate what he wanted -- wasn’t, to be honest, quite sure what it was he was looking for -- but fortunately his body did, rocking back just slightly to get more of that delicious pressure. “Mmaybe a, um, little harder?”  _ Not too much _ , his mind supplied unhelpfully, like what he  _ really  _ needed in that moment was gut-freezing terror that she’d hurt him. (Goodness, maybe in situations like these it was better to let his brain . . . disconnect, somewhat. Leave things to instinct and to Gwen, because they both knew what they were doing much more than he did.)

She hummed, her mouth still on the side of his throat so the noise vibrated down his spine. “Like this?”

Before he could answer his racing, addled thoughts, already tripping over themselves trying to navigate the pleasure-strewn minefield of his brain, careened to a sudden

“Oh --”

violent

“Hh, oh  _ f-ffuck -- _ ”

halt.

David’s free hand scrabbled at the wall behind him for a second, pawing desperately for a handhold as the warm firefly glow caught alight. It wasn’t the same as her fingers wrapped around him, certainly different from being inside her but something in that ballpark, something knee-weakening and tremulous and wonderful.

“I thought you might be into that. Not as intense as internal, you know. But also way less invasive, so . . .”

She sometimes complained that David never listened to her, and he hoped this wasn’t one of those times where he was supposed to be paying attention because he couldn’t even keep his eyes open, let alone coalesce the beautiful molten honey of her voice into coherent words.

“Please Gwen, please ke- ep doing that that’s so good that’s  _ perfect _ \--”

He was making a fool of himself, he was sure. He’d just have to hope she’d let him try to make it up to her, because if she stopped touching him he might actually die. Abandoning the tiles behind him, the arm not wrapped around Gwen’s waist snapped up, and he grabbed a fistful of hair in a grip especially painful thanks to the bandages wrapped around his head. But he didn’t care about bandages or head wounds or the girl of his dreams seeing the weird sick perverted things he was into, because he was so close and he just needed -- he  _ needed  _ it, needed it to combine with the way her voice washed over him like the water of the shower, the way she was touching so much of him, with both hands and with her entire body pressed against his side and the wet silk of her hair clinging to his skin and her smell and the electric flickers of pain as he tugged at his hair and everything and  _ everything _

“I’m almost --” The words cut off in a whine.

“Good,” she murmured, dragging his attention back to her words like she knew how addictive her praise was, fingers tightening just enough to completely ruin him. “Come for me, David, I wanna see you.”

_ God _ .

Well, it wasn’t like he was going to  _ refuse  _ her, was he?

It rocketed through him like a rubber band snapping, flashing bright behind his eyelids as the coiling, building tension finally gave way. The noise he made was pathetic and animal, almost wounded, purely vowels and entirely incoherent as he pulsed between her fingers, each one a glowing flash-fire that bounced around his head and skated through his body. He slumped back against the wall after a few seconds, forcing his eyes open and blearily watching his own come chase the water down the drain.

“Wow.” For a second he thought that he’d spoken -- it was more or less the only thing floating in his brain at the moment -- but then Gwen huffed out a breathless little laugh, humorless but far from unhappy. “We’ve really gotta do that more often.”

“Really?” As he slowly recovered, he realized with a jolt that she was washing her hands off, one of them glistening white with conditioner and with  _ him _ . It took some effort to claw his way back to coherence after that, but he managed. “But what about you?” He was so spent he could sleep standing up, but he’d also touch her until his arms fell off if she wanted him to.

She shook her head, kissing his cheek sweetly before tugging him back under the water to clean off any lingering residue. “I came twice, you came twice, we’re even,” she said. “Besides, it’s freezing in here. I was actually kinda worried the water would get too cold before you finished.”

“Oh?” Freezing? That was funny.

He was pretty sure he would’ve stayed in the shower with her all day without noticing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have more smut on my tumblr (check me out, I’m Forestwater87) if that’s your kinda thing. If you’re mad this isn’t a real chapter, I’m quite sorry bud.


End file.
